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-'n^"  ,  .  '•  ..riFrAIIFOP,,,  ^^WEUNi ,.  ..T;.UTFrrr,  -;.OF-CA1IFO%         .^iOf 


The  Personal  History  of 


DAVID 


COPPERFIELD 


by  Charles  Dickens 


Illustrated  in  Colour  by 
Frank  Reynolds  R.J. 


New  York  and  London 
Hodder  and  Stoughton 


Stack  Anna 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


MR.  MICAWBER Frontispiece 

'Astoutish,  middle-aged  person,  in  a  brown  suitout  and  black  tights 
and  shoes,  with  no  more  hair  upon  his  head  (which  was  a  large 
one,  and  very  shining)  than  there  is  upon  an  egg.  His  clothes 
were  shabby,  but  he  had  an  imposing  shirt-collar  on.  He  carried 
a  jaunty  sort  of  stick,  with  a  large  pair  of  rusty  tassels  to  it ; 
and  a  quizziug-glass  hung  outside  his  coat,— for  ornament,  I  after- 
wards found,  as  he  very  seldom  looked  through  it,  and  couldn't 
see  anything  when  he  did.' 


PAOR 

MISS  BETSEY  TROTWOOD 8 

'My  mother  had  a  sure  foreboding  at  the  second  glance,  that  it  was 
Miss  Betsey.  The  setting  sun  was  glowing  on  the  strange  lady, 
over  the  garden  fence,  and  she  came  walking  up  to  the  door  with 
a  fell  rigidity  of  figure  and  composure  of  countenance  that  could 
have  belonged  to  nobody  else.' 


I  OBSERVE 24 

'  I  have  an  impression  on  my  mind  which  I  cannot  distinguish  from 
actual  remembrance,  of  the  touch  of  Peggotty's  fore-finger  as 
she  used  to  hold  it  out  to  me,  and  of  its  being  roughened  by 
needlework,  like  a  pocket  nutmeg-grater.' 


MR.  MURDSTONE 32 

'His  regular  eyebrows,  and  the  rich  white,  and  black,  and  brown, 
of  his  complexion — confound  his  complexion,  and  liis  memory ! — 
made  me  think  him,  in  spite  of  my  misgivings,  a  very  handsome 
man.' 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


LITTLE  EM'LY  AND  I 64 

'The  days  sported  by  iis,  as  if  Time  had  not  grown  up  himself  yet, 
but  were  a  child  too,  and  always  at  play.' 


THE  FRIENDLY  WAITER 96 

'It  was  quite  delightful  to  me  to  find  him  so  pleasant.  He  was  a 
twinkling-eyed,  pimple-faced  man,  with  his  hair  standing  upright 
all  over  his  head ;  and  as  he  stood  with  one  arm  akimbo,  holding 
up  the  glass  to  the  light  with  the  other  hand,  he  looked  quite 
friendly.' 


MRS.  MICAWBER  AND  FAMILY 128 

'A  thin  and  faded  lady,  not  at  all  young,  who  was  sitting  in  the 
parlour.' 


I  REACH  CANTERBURY 160 

'  I  seemed  to  be  sustained  and  led  on  by  my  fanciful  picture  of  my 
mother  in  her  youth,  before  I  came  into  the  world.  It  always 
kept  me  company.  It  was  there,  among  the  hops,  when  I  lay 
down  to  sleep ;  it  was  with  me  on  my  waking  in  the  morning ; 
it  went  before  me  all  day.  I  have  associated  it,  ever  since,  with 
the  sunny  street  of  Canterbury,  dozing  as  it  were  in  the  hot 
light ;  and  with  the  sight  of  its  old  houses  and  gateways,  and 
the  stately  grey  cathedral,  with  the  rooks  sailing  round  the 
towers.' 


MR.  DICK  ANSWERS  A  QUESTION 192 

'"Oh!"    said    Mr.   Dick.      "Yes.      Do    with— I    should    put   him    to 
bed."' 


MR.  DICK  AND  HIS  KITE 224 

'  I  used  to  fancy,  as  I  sat  by  him  of  an  evening,  on  a  green  slope, 
and  saw  him  watch  the  kite  high  in  the  quiet  air,  that  it  lifted 
his  mind  out  of  its  confusion,  and  bore  it  (such  was  my  boyish 
thought)  into  the  skies.' 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  ELDEST  MISS  LARKINS lioO 

'She  approaches  me — she,  the    eldest   MiHS    Larkinsl— and   aska   me 

pleasantly,  if  I  dance? 
'I  Btammer,  with  a  bow,  "With  you,  Miss  Larkins."' 


STEERFORTH 288 

'A  handsome  well-formed  young  man,  dressed  with  a  tasteful  easy 
negligence.' 


MISS  MOWCHER 320 

'The  door  opened,   and  Littimer,   with  his  habitual  serenity  quite 
undisturbed,  announced— "  Miss  Mowcherl"' 


I  FALL  INTO  CAPTIVITY 352 

'  I  had  not  been  walking  long,  Avlien  I  turned  a  corner,  and  met  her. 
I  tingle  again  from  head  to  foot  as  my  recollection  turns  that 
corner,  and  my  pen  shakes  in  my  hand.' 


MR.  MICAWBER  IN  HIS  ELEMENT 384 

'I  never  saw  a  man  so  thoroughly  enjoy  himself  amid  the  fragrance 
of  lemon-peel  and  sugar,  the  odour  of  burning  rum,  and  the 
steam  of  boiling  water,  as  Mr.  Micawber  did  that  afternoon.  It 
was  wonderful  to  see  his  face  shining  at  us  out  of  a  thin  cloud 
of  these  delicate  fumes,  as  he  stirred,  and  mixed,  and  tasted,  and 
looked  as  if  he  were  making,  instead  of  punch,  a  fortune  for  his 
family,  down  to  the  latest  posterity.' 


MR.  PEGGOTTY  AND  HAM 410 

'It   was   on   the   beach,    close    down    by    the    sea,    that    I    found 
them.' 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


AGNES 448 

URIAH  HEEP 480 

THE  WANDERER 512 

'  He  was  always  wandering  about  from  place  to  place,  with  his  one 
object  of  recovering  his  niece  before  him.' 


TRADDLES  AND  I  VISIT  MR.  MICAWBER 544 

'"Gentlemen,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "do  with  me  as  you  will  I  I 
am  a  straw  upon  the  surface  of  the  deep,  and  am  tossed  in  all 
directions  by  the  elephants— I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  should  have 
said  the  elements."' 


MR.  PEGGOTTY .560 

'A  hale,  grey-haired  old  man.' 


CHAPTER   I 

I    AM    BORN 

WHETHER  I  shall  turn  out  to  be  the  hero  of  my  own  Ufe,  or  whether  that 
station  will  be  held  by  anybody  else,  these  pages  must  show.  To  begin 
my  life  with  the  beginning  of  my  life,  I  record  that  I  was  born  (as  I 
have  been  informed  and  believe)  on  a  Friday,  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night. 
It  was  remarked  that  the  clock  began  to  strike,  and  I  began  to  cry,  simultaneously. 

In  consideration  of  the  day  and  hour  of  my  birth,  it  was  declared  by  the  nurse, 
and  by  some  sage  women  in  the  neighbourhood  who  had  taken  a  lively  interest  in 
me  several  months  before  there  was  any  possibility  of  our  becoming  personally 
acquainted,  first,  that  I  was  destined  to  be  unlucky  in  life  ;  and  secondly,  that  I  was 
privileged  to  see  ghosts  and  spirits  ;  both  these  gifts  inevitably  attaching,  as  they 
believed,  to  all  unlucky  infants  of  either  gender,  born  towards  the  small  hours  on  a 
Friday  night. 

I  need  say  nothing  here  on  the  first  head,  because  nothing  can  show  better  than 
my  history  whether  that  prediction  was  verified  or  falsified  by  the  result.  On  the 
second  branch  of  the  question,  I  will  only  remark,  that  unless  I  ran  through  that  part 
of  my  inheritance  while  I  was  still  a  baby,  I  have  not  come  into  it  yet.  But  I  do 
not  at  all  complain  of  having  been  kept  out  of  this  property  ;  and  if  anybody  else 
should  be  in  the  present  enjoyment  of  it,  he  is  heartily  welcome  to  keep  it. 

I  was  born  with  a  caul,  which  was  advertised  for  sale,  in  the  newspapers,  at  the 
low  price  of  fifteen  guineas.  Whether  sea-going  people  were  short  of  money  about 
that  tune,  or  were  short  of  faith  and  preferred  cork  jackets,  I  don't  know  ;  all  I  know 
is,  that  there  was  but  one  solitary  bidding,  and  that  was  from  an  attorney  connected 
with  the  bill-broking  business,  who  offered  two  pounds  in  cash,  and  the  balance  in 
sherry,  but  declined  to  be  guaranteed  from  drowning  on  any  higher  bargain.  Con- 
sequently the  advertisement  was  withdrawn  at  a  dead  loss — for  as  to  sherry,  my 
poor  dear  mother's  own  sherry  was  in  the  market  then — and  ten  years  afterwards 
the  caul  was  put  up  in  a  raffle  down  in  our  part  of  the  country,  to  fifty  members  at 
half  a  crown  a  head,  the  winner  to  spend  five  shillings.  I  was  present  myself,  and  I 
remember  to  have  felt  quite  uncomfortable  and  confused,  at  a  part  of  myself  being 
disposed  of  in  that  way.  The  caul  was  won,  I  recollect,  by  an  old  lady  with  a  hand- 
basket,  who,  very  reluctantly,  produced  from  it  the  stipulated  five  shillings,  all  in 
halfpence,  and  twopence  halfpenny  short — as  it  took  an  immense  time  and  a  great 
waste  of  arithmetic,  to  endeavour  without  any  effect  to  prove  to  her.  It  is  a  fact 
which  will  be  long  remembered  as  remarkable  down  there,  that  she  was  never 
drowned,  but  died  triumphantly  in  bed,  at  ninety-two.  I  have  understood  that  it 
was,  to  the  last,  her  proudest  boast,  that  she  never  had  been  on  the  water  in  her  life, 
except  upon  a  bridge  ;  and  that  over  her  tea  (to  which  she  was  extremely  partial)  she. 


2  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

to  the  last,  expressed  her  indignation  at  the  impiety  of  mariners  and  others,  who  had 
the  presumption  to  go  '  meandering  '  about  the  world.  It  was  in  vain  to  represent 
to  her  that  some  conveniences,  tea  perhaps  included,  resulted  from  this  objectionable 
practice.  She  always  returned,  with  greater  emphasis  and  with  an  instinctive 
knowledge  of  the  strength  of  her  objection,  '  Let  us  have  no  meandering.' 

Not  to  meander  myself,  at  present,  I  will  go  back  to  my  birth. 

I  was  bom  at  Blunderstone,  in  Suffolk,  or  '  thereby,'  as  they  say  in  Scotland. 
I  was  a  posthmnous  chUd.  My  father's  eyes  had  closed  upon  the  light  of  this  world 
six  months,  when  mine  opened  on  it.  There  is  something  strange  to  me,  even  now, 
in  the  reflection  that  he  never  saw  me ;  and  something  stranger  yet  in  the  shadowy 
remembrance  that  I  have  of  my  first  childish  associations  with  his  white  gravestone 
in  the  churchyard,  and  of  the  indefinable  compassion  I  used  to  feel  for  it  lying  out 
alone  there  in  the  dark  night,  when  our  little  parlour  was  warm  and  bright  with  fire 
and  candle,  and  the  doors  of  our  house  were — almost  cruelly,  it  seemed  to  me  some- 
times—bolted and  locked  against  it. 

An  aunt  of  my  father's,  and  consequently  a  great-aunt  of  mine,  of  whom  I  shall 
have  more  to  relate  by-and-by,  was  the  principal  magnate  of  our  family.  Miss 
Trotwood,  or  Miss  Betsey,  as  my  poor  mother  always  called  her,  when  she  sufficiently 
overcame  her  dread  of  this  formidable  personage  to  mention  her  at  all  (which  was 
seldom),  had  been  married  to  a  husband  younger  than  herself,  who  was  very  hand- 
some, except  in  the  sense  of  the  homely  adage,  '  handsome  is,  that  handsome  does  ' 
— for  he  was  strongly  suspected  of  having  beaten  Miss  Betsey,  and  even  of  having 
•once,  on  a  disputed  question  of  supplies,  made  some  hasty  but  determined  arrange- 
ments to  throw  her  out  of  a  two  pair  of  stairs'  window.  These  evidences  of  an 
incompatibility  of  temper  induced  Miss  Betsey  to  pay  him  off,  and  effect  a  separation 
by  mutual  consent.  He  went  to  India  with  his  capital,  and  there,  according  to  a  wild 
legend  in  our  family,  he  was  once  seen  riding  on  an  elephant,  in  company  with  a 
Baboon  ;  but  I  think  it  must  have  been  a  Baboo — or  a  Begum.  Anyhow,  from  India 
tidings  of  his  death  reached  home,  within  ten  years.  How  they  affected  my  aunt, 
nobody  knew  ;  for  immediately  upon  the  separation  she  took  her  maiden  name  again, 
bought  a  cottage  in  a  hamlet  on  the  sea-coast  a  long  way  off,  established  herself  there 
as  a  single  woman  with  one  servant,  and  was  understood  to  live  secluded,  ever  after- 
wards, in  an  inflexible  retirement. 

My  father  had  once  been  a  favourite  of  hers,  I  believe  ;  but  she  was  mortally 
affronted  by  his  marriage,  on  the  ground  that  my  mother  was  '  a  wax  doll.'  She 
had  never  seen  my  mother,  but  she  knew  her  to  be  not  yet  twenty.  My  father  and 
Miss  Betsey  never  met  again.  He  was  double  my  mother's  age  when  he  married,  and  of 
but  a  delicate  constitution.  He  died  a  year  afterwards,  and,  as  I  have  said,  six 
months  before  I  came  into  the  world. 

This  was  the  state  of  matters  on  the  afternoon  of,  what  I  may  be  excused  for 
calling,  that  eventful  and  important  Friday.  I  can  make  no  claim,  therefore,  to  have 
known,  at  that  time,  how  matters  stood  ;  or  to  have  any  remembrance,  founded  on  the 
evidence  of  my  own  senses,  of  what  follows. 

My  mother  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  but  poorly  in  health,  and  very  low  in  spirits, 
looking  at  it  through  her  tears,  and  desponding  heavily  about  herself  and  the  fatherless 
little  stranger,  who  was  already  welcomed  by  some  grosses  of  prophetic  pins  in  a 
drawer  upstairs,  to  a  world  not  at  all  excited  on  the  subject  of  his  arrival ;  my  mother 
I  say,  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  that  bright,  windy  March  afternoon,  very  timid  and 


I  AM  BORN  8 

sad,  and  very  doubtful  of  ever  comiii}^  alive  out  of  the  trial  that  was  before  her, 
when,  lifting  her  eyes  as  she  dried  them,  to  the  window  opposite,  she  saw  a  strange 
lady  coming  up  the  garden. 

My  mother  had  a  sure  foreboding  at  the  second  glance,  that  it  was  Miss  Betsey, 
The  setting  sun  was  glowing  on  the  strange  lady,  over  the  garden  fence,  and  she 
came  walking  up  to  the  door  with  a  fell  rigidity  of  figure  and  composure  of  coun- 
tenance that  could  have  belonged  to  nobody  else. 

When  she  reached  the  house,  she  gave  another  proof  of  her  identity.  My  father 
had  often  hinted  that  she  seldom  conducted  herself  like  any  ordinary  Christian;  and 
now,  instead  of  ringing  the  bell,  she  came  and  looked  in  at  that  identical  window, 
pressing  the  end  of  her  nose  against  the  glass  to  that  extent  that  my  poor  dear 
mother  used  to  say  it  became  perfectly  flat  and  white  in  a  moment. 

She  gave  my  mother  such  a  turn,  that  I  have  always  been  convinced  I  ara 
indebted  to  Miss  Betsey  for  having  been  born  on  a  Friday. 

My  mother  had  left  her  chair  in  her  agitation,  and  gone  behind  it  in  the  comer. 
Miss  Betsey,  looking  round  the  room,  slowly  and  inquiringly,  began  on  the  other 
side,  and  carried  her  eyes  on,  like  a  Saracen's  head  in  a  Dutch  clock,  until  they 
reached  my  mother.  Then  she  made  a  frown  and  a  gesture  to  my  mother,  like  one 
who  was  accustomed  to  be  obeyed,  to  come  and  open  the  door.     My  mother  went. 

'  Mrs.  David  Copperfield,  I  think,'  said  Miss  Betsey ;    the  emphasis   referring, 
perhaps,  to  my  mother's  mourning  weeds,  and  her  condition. 
'  Yes,'  said  my  mother  faintly. 

'  Miss  Trotwood,'  said  the  visitor.     '  You  have  heard  of  her,  I  dare  say  ?  ' 
My  mother  answered  she  had  had  that  pleasure.     And  she  had  a  disagreeable 
consciousness  of  not  appearing  to  imply  that  it  had  been  an  overpowering  pleasure. 

'  Now  you  see  her,'  said  Miss  Betsey.  My  mother  bent  her  head,  and  begged 
her  to  walk  in. 

They  went  into  the  parlour  my  mother  had  come  from,  the  fire  in  the  best 
room  on  the  other  side  of  the  passage  not  being  lighted — not  having  been  lighted, 
indeed,  since  my  father's  funeral ;  and  when  they  were  both  seated,  and  Miss  Betsey 
said  nothing,  my  mother,  after  vainly  trying  to  restrain  herself,  began  to  cr}-. 

'  Oh,  tut,  tut,  tut  !  '  said  Miss  Betsey,  in  a  hurry.  '  Don't  do  that !  Come, 
come  !  ' 

My  mother  couldn't  help  it  notwithstanding,  so  she  cried  until  she  had  had  her 
cry  out. 

'  Take  off  your  cap,  child,'  said  Miss  Betsey,  '  and  let  me  see  you.' 
My  mother  was  too  much  afraid  of  her  to   refuse  compliance  with  this  odd 
request,  if  she  had  any  disposition  to  do  so.     Therefore  she  did  as  she  was  told, 
and  did  it  with  such  nervous  hands  that  her  hair  (which  was  luxuriant  and  beautiful) 
fell  all  about  her  face. 

'  Why,  bless  my  heart !  '  exclaimed  Miss  Betsey.  '  You  are  a  very  baby  !  ' 
My  mother  was,  no  doubt,  unusually  youthful  in  appearance  even  for  her 
years  ;  she  hung  her  head,  as  if  it  were  her  fault,  poor  thing,  and  said,  sobbing,  that 
indeed  she  was  afraid  she  was  but  a  childish  widow,  and  would  be  but  a  childisli 
mother  if  she  lived.  In  a  short  pause  which  ensued,  she  had  a  fancy  that  she  felt 
Miss  Betsey  touch  her  hair,  and  that  with  no  ungentle  hand  ;  but,  looking  at  her, 
in  her  timid  hope,  she  found  that  lady  sitting  with  the  skirt  of  her  dress  tucked  up, 
her  hands  folded  on  one  knee,  and  her  feet  upon  the  fender,  frowning  at  the  fire. 


4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  In  the  name  of  Heaven,'  said  Miss  Betsey,  suddenly,  '  why  Rookery  ?  ' 

'  Do  you  mean  the  house,  ma'am  ?  '  asked  my  mother. 

'  Why  Rookery  ? '  said  Miss  Betsey.  '  Cookery  would  have  been  more  to  the 
purpose,  if  you  had  had  any  practical  ideas  of  life,  either  of  you.' 

'  The  name  was  Mr.  Copperiield's  choice,'  returned  my  mother.  '  When  he  bought 
the  house,  he  liked  to  think  that  there  were  rooks  about  it.' 

The  evening  wind  made  such  a  disturbance  just  now,  among  some  tall  old  elm- 
trees  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  that  neither  my  mother  nor  Miss  Betsey  could 
forbear  glancing  that  way.  As  the  elms  bent  to  one  another,  like  giants  who  were 
whispering  secrets,  and  after  a  few  seconds  of  such  repose,  fell  into  a  violent  flurry, 
tossing  their  wild  arms  about,  as  if  their  late  confidences  were  really  too  wicked  for 
their  peace  of  mind,  some  weather-beaten  ragged  old  rooks'-nests  burdening  their 
higher  branches,  swung  like  wrecks  upon  a  stormy  sea. 

'  Where  are  the  birds  ?  '  asked  Miss  Betsey. 

'  The ?  '     My  mother  had  been  thinking  of  something  else. 

'  The  rooks — what  has  become  of  them  ?  '  asked  Miss  Betsey. 

'  There  have  not  been  any  since  we  have  lived  here,'  said  my  mother.  '  We 
thought — Mr.  Copperfield  thought — it  was  quite  a  large  rookery  ;  but  the  nests  were 
very  old  ones,  and  the  birds  have  deserted  them  a  long  while.' 

'  David  Copperfield  all  over ! '  cried  Miss  Betsey.  '  David  Copperfield  from  head 
to  foot !  Calls  a  house  a  rookery  when  there  's  not  a  rook  near  it,  and  takes  the  birds 
on  trust,  because  he  sees  the  nests  !  ' 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,'  returned  my  mother,  '  is  dead,  and  if  you  dare  to  speak 
unkindly  of  him  to  me ' 

My  poor  dear  mother,  I  suppose,  had  some  momentary  intention  of  committing 
an  assault  and  battery  upon  my  aunt,  who  could  easily  have  settled  her  with  one 
hand,  even  if  my  mother  had  been  in  far  better  training  for  such  an  encounter  than 
she  was  that  evening.  But  it  passed  with  the  action  of  rising  from  her  chair ;  and  she 
sat  down  again  very  meekly,  and  fainted. 

When  she  came  to  herself,  or  when  Miss  Betsey  had  restored  her,  whichever  it 
was,  she  found  the  latter  standing  at  the  window.  The  twilight  was  by  this  time 
shading  down  into  darkness  ;  and  dimly  as  they  saw  each  other,  they  could  not 
have  done  that  without  the  aid  of  the  fire. 

'  W^ell  ? '  said  Miss  Betsey,  coming  back  to  her  chair,  as  if  she  had  only  been 
taking  a  casual  look  at  the  prospect ;    '  and  when  do  you  expect ' 

'  I  am  all  in  a  tremble,'  faltered  my  mother.  '  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter. 
I  shall  die,  I  am  sure  !  ' 

'  No,  no,  no,'  said  Miss  Betsey.     '  Have  some  tea.' 

'  Oh  dear  me,  dear  me,  do  you  think  it  will  do  me  any  good  ?  '  cried  my  mother 
in  a  helpless  manner. 

'  Of  course  it  will,'  said  Miss  Betsey.  '  It 's  nothing  but  fancy.  What  do 
you  call  your  girl  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know  that  it  will  be  a  girl,  yet,  ma'am,'  said  my  mother  innocently. 

'  Bless  the  baby  !  '  exclaimed  Miss  Betsey,  unconsciously  quoting  the  second 
sentiment  of  the  pincushion  in  the  drawer  upstairs,  but  applying  it  to  my  mother 
instead  of  me,  '  I  don't  mean  that.     I  mean  your  servant.' 

'  Peggotty,'  said  my  mother. 

'  Peggotty  !  '  repeated  Miss  Betsey,  with  some  indignation.     '  Do  you  mean  to 


I  AM  BORN  5 

say,  child,  that  any  human  being  has  gone  into  a  Christian  church,  and  got  herself 
named  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  It 's  her  surname,'  said  my  mother,  faintly.  '  Mr.  CopperAeld  called  her  by 
it,  because  her  Christian  name  was  the  same  as  mine.' 

'  Here,  Peggotty  !  '  cried  Miss  Betsey,  opening  the  parlour-door.  '  Tea.  Your 
mistress  is  a  little  unwell.     Don't  dawdle.' 

Having  issued  this  mandate  with  as  much  potentiality  as  if  she  had  been  a 
recognised  authority  in  the  house  ever  since  it  had  been  a  house,  and  having  looked 
out  to  confront  the  amazed  Peggotty  coming  along  the  passage  with  a  candle  at  the 
sound  of  a  strange  voice,  Miss  Betsey  shut  the  door  again,  and  sat  down  as  before  ; 
with  her  feet  on  the  fender,  the  skirt  of  her  dress  tucked  up,  and  her  hands  folded 
on  one  knee. 

'  You  were  speaking  about  its  being  a  girl,'  said  Miss  Betsey.  '  I  have  no 
doubt  it  will  be  a  girl.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  it  must  be  a  girl.  Now  child, 
from  the  moment  of  the  birth  of  this  girl ' 

'  Perhaps  boy,'  my  mother  took  the  liberty  of  putting  in. 

'  I  tell  you  I  have  a  presentiment  that  it  must  be  a  girl,'  returned  Miss  Betsey. 
'  Don't  contradict.  From  the  moment  of  this  girl's  birth,  child,  I  intend  to  be  her 
friend.  I  intend  to  be  her  godmother,  and  I  beg  you  '11  call  her  Betsey  Trotwood 
Copperfield.  There  must  be  no  mistakes  in  life  with  this  Betsey  Trotwood.  There 
must  be  no  trifling  with  her  affections,  poor  dear.  She  must  be  well  brought  up, 
and  well  guarded  from  reposing  any  foolish  confidences  where  they  are  not  deserved. 
I  must  make  that  my  care.' 

There  was  a  twitch  of  Miss  Betsey's  head,  after  each  of  these  sentences,  as  if  her 
own  old  wrongs  were  working  within  her,  and  she  repressed  any  plainer  reference  to 
them  by  strong  constraint.  So  my  mother  suspected,  at  least,  as  she  observed  her 
by  the  low  glimmer  of  the  fire  :  too  much  scared  by  Miss  Betsey,  too  uneasy  in  herself, 
and  too  subdued  and  bewildered  altogether,  to  observe  anything  very  clearly,  or  to 
know  what  to  say. 

'  And  was  David  good  to  you,  child  ?  '  asked  Miss  Betsey,  when  she  had  been 
silent  for  a  little  while,  and  these  motions  of  her  head  had  gradually  ceased.  '  Were 
you  comfortable  together  ?  ' 

'  We  were  very  happy,'  said  my  mother.  '  Mr.  Copperfield  was  only  too  good 
to  me.' 

'  What,  he  spoilt  you,  I  suppose  ?  '  returned  Miss  Betsey. 

'  For  being  quite  alone  and  dependent  on  myself  in  this  rough  world  again,  yes, 
I  fear  he  did  indeed,'  sobbed  my  mother. 

'  Well  1  Don't  cry  !  '  said  Miss  Betsey.  '  You  were  not  equally  matched,  child 
— if  any  two  people  can  be  equally  matched — and  so  I  asked  the  question.  You 
were  an  orphan,  weren't  you  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  And  a  governess  ?  ' 

'  I  was  nursery -governess  in  a  family  where  Mr.  Copperfield  came  to  visit. 
Mr.  Copperfield  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  took  a  great  deal  of  notice  of  me,  and  paid 
me  a  good  deal  of  attention,  and  at  last  proposed  to  me.  And  I  accepted  him. 
And  so  we  were  married,'  said  my  mother  simply. 

'  Ha  !  Poor  baby  ! '  mused  Miss  Betsey,  with  her  frown  still  bent  upon  the  fire, 
'  Do  you  know  anything  ?  ' 


6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,'  faltered  my  mother. 

'  About  keeping  house,  for  instance,'  said  Miss  Betsey. 

'  Not  much,  I  fear,'  returned  my  mother.  '  Not  so  much  as  I  could  wish. 
But  Mr.  Copperfield  was  teaching  me ' 

('  Much  he  knew  about  it  himself !  ')  said  Miss  Betsey  in  a  parenthesis. 

— '  And  I  hope  I  should  have  improved,  being  very  anxious  to  learn,  and  he 
very  patient  to  teach,  if  the  great  misfortune  of  his  death  ' — my  mother  broke  down 
again  here,  and  could  get  no  further. 

'  Well,  well  !  '  said  Miss  Betsey. 

— '  I  kept  my  housekeeping-book  regularly,  and  balanced  it  with  Mr.  Copperfield 
every  night,'  cried  my  mother  in  another  burst  of  distress,  and  breaking  down  again. 

'  Well,  well  !  '  said  Miss  Betsey.     '  Don't  cry  any  more.' 

— '  And  I  am  sure  we  never  had  a  word  of  difference  respecting  it,  except 
when  Mr.  Copperfield  objected  to  my  threes  and  fives  being  too  much  like  each 
other,  or  to  my  putting  curly  tails  to  my  sevens  and  nines,'  resumed  my  mother  in 
another  burst,  and  breaking  down  again. 

'  You  '11  make  yourself  ill,'  said  Miss  Betsey,  '  and  you  know  that  will  not  be 
good  either  for  you  or  for  my  goddaughter.     Come  !     You  mustn't  do  it !  ' 

This  argument  had  some  share  in  quieting  my  mother,  though  her  increasing 
indisposition  had  perhaps  a  larger  one.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  only 
broken  by  Miss  Betsey's  occasionally  ejaculating  '  Ha  !  '  as  she  sat  with  her  feet 
upon  the  fender. 

'  David  had  bought  an  annuity  for  himself  with  his  money,  I  know,'  said  she, 
by-and-by.     '  What  did  he  do  for  you  ?  ' 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  my  mother,  answering  with  some  difficulty,  '  was  so 
considerate  and  good  as  to  secure  the  reversion  of  a  part  of  it  to  me.' 

'  How  much  ?  '  asked  Miss  Betsey. 

'  A  hundred  and  five  pounds  a  year,'  said  my  mother. 

'  He  might  have  done  worse,'  said  my  aunt. 

The  word  was  appropriate  to  the  moment.  My  mother  was  so  much  worse 
that  Peggotty,  coming  in  with  the  tea-board  and  candles,  and  seeing  at  a  glance 
how  ill  she  was, — as  Miss  Betsey  might  have  done  sooner  if  there  had  been  light 
enough, — conveyed  her  upstairs  to  her  own  room  with  all  speed  ;  and  immediately 
despatched  Ham  Peggotty,  her  nephew,  who  had  been  for  some  days  past  secreted 
in  the  house,  unknown  to  my  mother,  as  a  special  messenger  in  case  of  emergency, 
to  fetch  the  nurse  and  doctor. 

These  allied  powers  were  considerably  astonished,  when  they  arrived  within  a 
few  minutes  of  each  other,  to  find  an  unknown  lady  of  portentous  appearance  sitting 
before  the  fire,  with  her  bonnet  tied  over  her  left  arm,  stopping  her  ears  with  jewellers' 
cotton.  Peggotty  knowing  nothing  about  her,  and  my  mother  saying  nothing 
about  her,  she  was  quite  a  mystery  in  the  parlour ;  and  the  fact  of  her  having  a 
magazine  of  jewellers'  cotton  in  her  pocket,  and  sticking  the  article  in  her  ears  in 
that  way,  did  not  detract  from  the  solemnity  of  her  presence. 

The  doctor  having  been  upstairs  and  come  down  again,  and  having  satisfied 
himself,  I  suppose,  that  there  was  a  probability  of  this  unknown  lady  and  himself 
having  to  sit  there,  face  to  face,  for  some  hours,  laid  himself  out  to  be  polite  and  social. 
He  was  the  meekest  of  his  sex,  the  mildest  of  little  men.  He  sidled  in  and  out  of  a 
room,  to  take  up  the  less  space.     He  walked  as  softly  as  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet,  and 


r  AM  BOKN  7 

more  slowly.  He  carried  his  head  on  one  side,  partly  in  modest  depreciation  of 
himself,  partly  in  modest  propitiation  of  everybody  else.  It  is  nothing  to  say  that  he 
hadn't  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog.  He  couldn't  have  thrown  a  word  at  a  mad  dog. 
He  might  have  offered  him  one  gently,  or  half  a  one,  or  a  fragment  of  one  ;  for  he 
spoke  as  slowly  as  he  walked  ;  but  he  wouldn't  have  been  rude  to  him,  and  he 
couldn't  have  been  quick  with  him,  for  any  earthly  consideration. 

Mr.  Chillip,  looking  mildly  at  my  aunt  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  making  her 
a  little  bow,  said,  in  allusion  to  the  jewellers'  cotton,  as  he  softly  touched  his  left  ear — 

'  Some  local  irritation,  ma'am  ?  ' 

'  What  ?  '  replied  my  aunt,  pulling  the  cotton  out  of  one  ear  like  a  cork. 

Mr.  Chillip  was  so  alarmed  by  her  abruptness — as  he  told  my  mother  afterwards — 
that  it  was  a  mercy  he  didn't  lose  his  presence  of  mind.     But  he  repeated  sweetly — 

'  Some  local  irritation,  ma'am  ?  ' 

'  Nonsense  !  '  replied  my  aunt,  and  corked  herself  again,  at  one  blow. 

Mr.  Chillip  could  do  nothing  after  this,  but  sit  and  look  at  her  feebly,  as  she 
sat  and  looked  at  the  fire,  until  he  was  called  upstairs  again.  After  some  quarter  of 
an  hour's  absence,  he  returned. 

'  Well  ?  '  said  my  aunt,  taking  the  cotton  out  of  the  ear  nearest  to  him. 

'  Well,  ma'am,'  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  '  we  are — we  are  progressing  slowly,  ma'am.' 

'  Ba — a — ah  !  '  said  my  aunt,  with  a  perfect  shake  on  the  contemptuous  inter- 
jection.    And  corked  herself  as  before. 

Really — really — as  Mr.  Chillip  told  my  mother,  he  was  almost  shocked  ;  speaking 
in  a  professional  point  of  view  alone  he  was  almost  shocked.  But  he  sat  and  looked 
at  her,  notwithstanding,  for  nearly  two  hours,  as  she  sat  looking  at  the  fire,  until  he 
was  again  called  out.     After  another  absence,  he  again  returned. 

'  Well  ?  '  said  my  aunt,  taking  out  the  cotton  on  that  side  again. 

'  Well,  ma'am,'  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  '  we  are — we  are  progressing  slowly,  ma'am.' 

'  Ya — a — ah  !  '  said  my  aunt.  With  such  a  snarl  at  him,  that  Mr.  Chillip 
absolutely  could  not  bear  it.  It  was  really  calculated  to  break  his  spirit,  he  said 
afterwards.  He  preferred  to  go  and  sit  upon  the  stairs,  in  the  dark  and  a  strong 
draught,  until  he  was  again  sent  for. 

Ham  Peggotty,  who  went  to  the  national  school,  and  was  a  very  dragon  at  his 
catechism,  and  who  may  therefore  be  regarded  as  a  credible  witness,  reported  next 
day,  that  happening  to  peep  in  at  the  parlour-door  an  hour  after  this,  he  was  instantly 
descried  by  Miss  Betsey,  then  walking  to  and  fro  in  a  state  of  agitation,  and  pounced 
upon  before  he  could  make  his  escape.  That  there  were  now  occasional  sounds  of 
feet  and  voices  overhead  which  he  inferred  the  cotton  did  not  exclude,  from  the 
circimistance  of  his  evidently  being  clutched  by  the  lady  as  a  victim  on  whom  to 
expend  her  superabundant  agitation  when  the  sounds  were  loudest.  That,  marching 
him  constantly  up  and  down  by  the  collar  (as  if  he  had  been  taking  too  much 
laudanum),  she,  at  those  times,  shook  him,  rumpled  his  hair,  made  light  of  his  linen, 
stopped  his  ears  as  if  she  confounded  them  with  her  own,  and  otherwise  touzled  and 
maltreated  him.  This  was  in  part  confirmed  by  his  aunt,  who  saw  him  at  half-past 
twelve  o'clock,  soon  after  his  release,  and  affirmed  that  he  was  then  as  red  as  I  was. 

The  mild  Mr.  Chillip  could  not  possibly  bear  malice  at  such  a  time,  if  at  any  time. 
He  sidled  into  the  parlour  as  soon  as  he  was  at  liberty,  and  said  to  my  aunt  in  his 
meekest  manner — 

'  Well,  ma'am,  I  am  happy  to  congratulate  you.' 


8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  What  upon  ?  '  said  my  aunt  sharply. 

Mr.  Chillip  was  fluttered  again,  by  the  extreme  severity  of  my  aunt's  manner ; 
so  he  made  her  a  Uttle  bow,  and  gave  her  a  Uttle  smile,  to  mollify  her. 

'  Mercy  on  the  man,  what 's  he  doing  !  '  cried  my  aunt  impatiently.  '  Can't 
he  speak  ?  ' 

'  Be  calm,  my  dear  ma'am,'  said  Mr.  Chillip,  in  his  softest  accents.  '  There  is  no 
longer  any  occasion  for  uneasiness,  ma'am.     Be  calm.' 

It  has  since  been  considered  almost  a  miracle  that  my  aimt  didn't  shake  him, 
and  shake  what  he  had  to  say  out  of  him.  She  only  shook  her  own  head  at  him, 
but  in  a  way  that  made  him  quail. 

'  Well,  ma'am,'  resvuned  Mr.  Chillip,  as  soon  as  he  had  courage,  '  I  am  happy  to 
congratulate  you.     All  is  now  over,  ma'am,  and  well  over.' 

During  the  five  minutes  or  so  that  Mr.  Chillip  devoted  to  the  delivery  of  this 
oration,  my  aunt  eyed  him  narrowly. 

'  How  is  she  ? '  said  my  aunt,  folding  her  arms  with  her  bonnet  still  tied  on 
one  of  them. 

'  Well,  ma'am,  she  will  soon  be  quite  comfortable,  I  hope,'  returned  Mr.  Chillip. 
'  Quite  as  comfortable  as  we  can  expect  a  young  mother  to  be,  under  these  melan- 
choly domestic  circumstances.  There  cannot  be  any  objection  to  your  seeing  her 
presently,  ma'am.     It  may  do  her  good.' 

'  And  she.     How  is  she  ?  '  said  my  aunt,  sharply. 

Mr.  Chillip  laid  his  head  a  little  more  on  one  side,  and  looked  at  my  aunt  like  an 
amiable  bird. 

'  The  baby,'  said  my  aunt.     '  How  is  she  ?  ' 

'  Ma'am,'  returned  Mr.  ChiUip,  '  I  apprehended  you  had  known.     It 's  a  boy.' 

My  aunt  said  never  a  word,  but  took  her  bonnet  by  the  strings,  in  the  manner 
of  a  sling,  aimed  a  blow  at  Mr.  Chillip's  head  with  it,  put  it  on  bent,  walked  out, 
and  never  came  back.  She  vanished  like  a  discontented  fairy  ;  or  like  one  of  those 
supernatural  beings  whom  it  was  popularly  supposed  I  was  entitled  to  see  ;  and 
never  came  back  any  more. 

No.  I  lay  in  my  basket,  and  my  mother  lay  in  her  bed  ;  but  Betsey  Trotwood 
Copperfield  was  for  ever  in  the  land  of  dreams  and  shadows,  the  tremendous  region 
whence  I  had  so  lately  travelled  ;  and  the  light  upon  the  window  of  our  room  shone 
out  upon  the  earthly  bourne  of  all  such  travellers,  and  the  mound  above  the  ashes 
and  the  dust  that  once  was  he,  without  whom  I  had  never  been. 


CHAPTER   II 

I    OBSERVE 

THE  first  objects  that  assume  a  distinct  presence  before  me,  as  I  look  far  back, 
into  the  blank  of  my  infancy,  are  my  mother  with  her  pretty  hair  and 
youthful  shape,  and  Peggotty,  with  no  shape  at  all,  and  eyes  so  dark  that 
they  seemed  to  darken  their  whole  neighbourhood  in  her  face,  and  cheeks 
and  arms  so  hard  and  red  that  I  wondered  the  birds  didn't  peck  her  in  preference 
to  apples. 


MISS   BETSEY   TROTWOOD 

'My  mother  had  a  sure  foreboding  at  the  second  glance,  tliat  it  was 
Miss  Holsey.  The  sotting  sun  was  glowing  on  the  strange  lady,  over  the 
garden  fence,  and  she  came  walking  up  to  the  door  with  a  fell  rigidity  of 
flgnrc  and  composure  of  countenance  that  could  liavc  belonged  to  nobody 
else.'  ^Page  3) 


I  OBSP^RVE  9 

I  believe  I  can  remember  these  two  at  a  little  distance  apart,  dwarfod  to  my  sight 
by  stooping  down  or  kneeling  on  the  floor,  and  I  going  unsteadily  from  the  one  to  the 
other.  I  have  an  impression  on  my  mind  which  I  cannot  distinguish  from  actual 
remembrance,  of  the  touch  of  Peggotty's  forefinger  as  she  used  to  hold  it  out  to  me, 
and  of  its  being  roughened  by  needlework,  like  a  pocket  nutmeg-grater. 

This  may  be  fancy,  though  I  think  the  memory  of  most  of  us  can  go  farther 
back  into  such  times  than  many  of  us  suppose  ;  just  as  I  believe  the  power  of  obser- 
vation in  numbers  of  very  young  children  to  be  quite  wonderful  for  its  closeness  and 
accuracy.  Indeed,  I  think  that  most  grown  men  who  are  remarkable  in  this  respect, 
may  with  greater  propriety  be  said  not  to  have  lost  the  faculty,  than  to  have  acquired 
it ;  the  rather,  as  I  generally  observe  such  men  to  retain  a  certain  freshness,  and 
gentleness,  and  capacity  of  being  pleased,  which  are  also  an  inheritance  they  have 
preserved  from  their  childhood. 

I  might  have  a  misgiving  that  I  am  '  meandering  '  in  stopping  to  say  this,  but 
that  it  brings  me  to  remark  that  I  build  these  conclusions,  in  part  upon  my  own 
experience  of  myself  ;  and  if  it  should  appear  from  anything  I  may  set  down  in  this 
narrative  that  I  was  a  child  of  close  observation,  or  that  as  a  man  I  have  a  strong 
memory  of  my  childhood,  I  undoubtedly  lay  claim  to  both  of  these  characteristics. 

Looking  back,  as  I  was  saying,  into  the  blank  of  my  infancy,  the  first  objects 
I  can  remember  as  standing  out  by  themselves  from  a  confusion  of  things,  are  my 
mother  and  Peggotty.     What  else  do  I  remember  ?     Let  me  see. 

There  comes  out  of  the  cloud,  our  house — not  new  to  me,  but  quite  familiar, 
in  its  earliest  remembrance.  On  the  ground-floor  is  Peggotty's  kitchen,  opening  into 
a  back  yard  ;  with  a  pigeon-house  on  a  pole,  in  the  centre,  without  any  pigeons  in  it  ; 
a  great  dog-kennel  in  a  comer,  without  any  dog  ;  and  a  quantity  of  fowls  that  look 
terribly  tall  to  me,  walking  about,  in  a  menacing  and  ferocious  manner.  There  is  one 
cock  who  gets  upon  a  post  to  crow,  and  seems  to  take  particular  notice  of  me  as  I  look 
at  him  through  the  kitchen  window,  who  makes  me  shiver,  he  is  so  fierce.  Of  the 
geese  outside  the  side-gate  who  come  waddling  after  me  with  their  long  necks  stretched 
out  when  I  go  that  way,  I  dream  at  night,  as  a  man  environed  by  wild  beasts  might 
dream  of  lions. 

Here  is  a  long  passage — what  an  enormous  perspective  I  make  of  it  ! — leading 
from  Peggotty's  kitchen  to  the  front-door.  A  dark  store-room  opens  out  of  it,  and  that 
is  a  place  to  be  run  past  at  night ;  for  I  don't  know  what  may  be  among  those  tubs 
and  jars  and  old  tea-chests,  when  there  is  nobody  in  there  with  a  dimly-burning  light, 
letting  a  mouldy  air  come  out  at  the  door,  in  which  there  is  the  smell  of  soap,  pickles, 
pepper,  candles,  and  coffee,  all  at  one  whiff.  Then  there  are  the  two  parlours  ;  the 
parlour  in  which  we  sit  of  an  evening,  my  mother  and  I  and  Peggotty — for  Peggotty 
is  quite  our  companion,  when  her  work  is  done  and  we  are  alone — and  the  best  parlour 
where  we  sit  on  a  Sunday  ;  grandly,  but  not  so  comfortably.  There  is  something  of 
a  doleful  air  about  that  room  to  me,  for  Peggotty  has  told  me — I  don't  know  when, 
but  apparently  ages  ago — about  my  father's  funeral,  and  the  company  having  their 
black  cloaks  put  on.  One  Sunday  night  my  mother  reads  to  Peggotty  and  rae  in 
there,  how  Lazarus  was  raised  up  from  the  dead.  And  I  am  so  frightened  that  they 
are  afterwards  obliged  to  take  me  out  of  bed,  and  show  me  the  quiet  churchyard  out 
of  the  bedroom  window,  with  the  dead  all  lying  in  their  graves  at  rest,  below  the 
solemn  moon. 

There  is  nothing  half  so  green  that  I  know  anywhere,  as  the  grass  of  that  church- 


10  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

yard  ;  nothing  half  so  shady  as  its  trees  ;  nothing  half  so  quiet  as  its  tombstones. 
The  sheep  are  feeding  there,  when  I  kneel  up,  early  in  the  morning,  in  my  little  bed 
in  a  closet  within  my  mother's  room,  to  look  out  at  it ;  and  I  see  the  red  light  shining 
on  the  sun-dial,  and  think  within  myself,  '  Is  the  sun-dial  glad,  I  wonder,  that  it 
can  tell  the  time  again  ?  ' 

Here  is  our  pew  in  the  church.  What  a  high-backed  pew  !  With  a  window 
near  it,  out  of  which  our  house  can  be  seen,  and  is  seen  many  times  during  the 
morning's  service,  by  Peggotty,  who  likes  to  make  herself  as  sure  as  she  can  that 
it 's  not  being  robbed,  or  is  not  in  flames.  But  though  Peggotty's  eye  wanders, 
she  is  much  offended  if  mine  does,  and  frowns  to  me,  as  I  stand  upon  the  seat,  that 
I  am  to  look  at  the  clergyman.  But  I  can't  always  look  at  him — I  know  him  without 
that  white  thing  on,  and  I  am  afraid  of  his  wondering  why  I  stare  so,  and  perhaps 
stopping  the  service  to  inquire — and  what  am  I  to  do  ?  It 's  a  dreadful  thing  to  gape, 
but  I  must  do  something.  I  look  at  my  mother,  but  she  pretends  not  to  see  me.  I 
look  at  a  boy  in  the  aisle,  and  he  makes  faces  at  me.  I  look  at  the  sunlight  coming  in 
at  the  open  door  through  the  porch,  and  there  I  see  a  stray  sheep — I  don't  mean  a 
sinner,  but  mutton — half  making  up  his  mind  to  come  into  the  church.  I  feel  that  if  I 
looked  at  him  any  longer,  I  might  be  tempted  to  say  something  out  loud  ;  and  what 
would  become  of  me  then  ?  I  look  up  at  the  monumental  tablets  on  the  wall,  and 
try  to  think  of  Mr.  Bodgers  late  of  this  parish,  and  what  the  feelings  of  Mrs.  Bodgers 
must  have  been,  when  affliction  sore,  long  time  Mr.  Bodgers  bore,  and  physicians 
were  in  vain.  I  wonder  whether  they  called  in  Mr.  Chillip,  and  he  was  in  vain  ;  and 
if  so,  how  he  likes  to  be  reminded  of  it  once  a  week.  I  look  from  Mr.  Chillip,  in  his 
Sunday  neckcloth,  to  the  pulpit ;  and  think  what  a  good  place  it  would  be  to  play  in, 
and  what  a  castle  it  would  make,  with  another  boy  coming  up  the  stairs  to  attack  it, 
and  having  the  velvet  cushion  with  the  tassels  thrown  down  on  his  head.  In  time  my 
eyes  gradually  shut  up  ;  and,  from  seeming  to  hear  the  clergyman  singing  a  drowsy 
song  in  the  heat,  I  hear  nothing,  until  I  fall  off  the  seat  with  a  crash,  and  am  taken 
out,  more  dead  than  alive,  by  Peggotty. 

And  now  I  see  the  outside  of  our  house,  with  the  latticed  bedroom  windows 
standing  open  to  let  in  the  sweet-smelling  air,  and  the  ragged  old  rooks'-nests  still 
dangling  in  the  elm-trees  at  the  bottom  of  the  front  garden.  Now  I  am  in  the 
garden  at  the  back,  beyond  the  yard  where  the  empty  pigeon-house  and  dog-kennel 
are — a  very  preserve  of  butterflies,  as  I  remember  it,  with  a  high  fence,  and  a  gate 
and  padlock ;  where  the  fruit  clusters  on  the  trees,  riper  and  richer  than  fruit  has 
ever  been  since,  in  any  other  garden,  and  where  my  mother  gathers  some  in  a  basket, 
while  I  stand  by,  bolting  furtive  gooseberries,  and  trying  to  look  unmoved.  A  great 
wind  rises,  and  the  summer  is  gone  in  a  moment.  We  are  playing  in  the  winter 
twilight,  dancing  about  the  parlour.  When  my  mother  is  out  of  breath  and  rests 
herself  in  an  elbow-chair,  I  watch  her  winding  her  bright  curls  round  her  fingers, 
and  straightening  her  waist,  and  nobody  knows  better  than  I  do  that  she  likes  to 
look  so  well,  and  is  proud  of  being  so  pretty. 

That  is  among  my  very  earliest  impressions.  That,  and  a  sense  that  we  were 
both  a  little  afraid  of  Peggotty,  and  submitted  ourselves  in  most  things  to  her 
direction,  were  among  the  first  opinions — if  they  may  be  so  called — that  I  ever 
derived  from  what  I  saw. 

Peggotty  and  I  were  sitting  one  night  by  the  parlour  fire,  alone.  I  had  been 
reading  to  Peggotty  about  crocodiles.     I  must  have  read  very  perspicuously,  or  the 


1   OBSERVE  11 

poor  soul  must  have  been  deeply  interested,  for  I  remember  she  had  a  cloudy  im- 
pression, after  I  had  done,  that  they  were  a  sort  of  vegetable.  I  was  tired  of  readinfr, 
and  dead  sleepy  ;  but  having  leave,  as  a  high  treat,  to  sit  up  until  my  mother  came 
home  from  spending  the  evening  at  a  neighbour's,  I  would  rather  have  died  upon 
my  j)ost  (of  course)  than  iiave  gone  to  bed.  I  had  reached  that  stage  of  sleepiness 
when  Peggotty  seemed  to  swell  and  grow  immensely  large.  I  propped  my  eyelids 
open  with  my  two  forefingers,  and  looked  pcrseveringly  at  her  as  she  sat  at  work  ; 
at  the  little  bit  of  wax-candle  she  kept  for  her  thread — how  old  it  looked,  being 
so  wrinkled  in  all  directions ! — at  the  little  house  with  a  thatched  roof,  where  the 
yard-measure  lived  ;  at  her  work-box  with  a  sliding  lid,  with  a  view  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral  (with  a  pink  dome)  painted  on  the  top  ;  at  the  brass  thimble  on  her 
finger  ;  at  herself,  whom  I  thought  lovely.  I  felt  so  sleepy,  that  I  knew  if  I  lost 
sight  of  anything,  for  a  moment,  I  was  gone. 

'  Peggotty,'  says  I,  suddenly,  '  were  you  ever  married  ?  ' 

'  Lord,  Master  Davy,'  replied  Peggotty.     '  What 's  put  marriage  in  your  head  ?  ' 

She  answered  with  such  a  start,  that  it  quite  awoke  me.  And  then  she  stopped 
in  her  work,  and  looked  at  me,  with  her  needle  drawn  out  to  its  thread's  length. 

'  But  -were  you  ever  married,  Peggotty  ?  '  says  I.  '  You  are  a  very  handsome 
woman,  an't  you  ?  ' 

I  thought  her  in  a  different  style  from  my  mother,  certainly  ;  but  of  another  school 
of  beauty,  I  considered  her  a  perfect  example.  There  was  a  red  velvet  footstool  in  the 
best  parlour,  on  which  my  mother  had  painted  a  nosegay.  The  groundwork  of  that 
stool  and  Peggotty's  complexion  appeared  to  me  to  be  one  and  the  same  thing.  The 
stool  was  smooth,  and  Peggotty  was  rough,  but  that  made  no  difference. 

'  Me  handsome,  Davy  !  '  said  Peggotty.  '  Lawk,  no,  my  dear.  But  what  put 
marriage  in  your  head  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know  ! — You  mustn't  marry  more  than  one  person  at  a  time,  may 
you,  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  Certainly  not,'  says  Peggotty,  with  the  promptest  decision. 

'  But  if  you  marry  a  person,  and  the  person  dies,  why  then  you  may  marry 
another  person,  mayn't  you,  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  You  MAY,'  says  Peggotty,  '  if  you  choose,  my  dear.  That 's  a  matter  of 
opinion.' 

'  But  what  is  your  opinion,  Peggotty  ?  '  said  I. 

I  asked  her,  and  looked  curiously  at  her,  because  she  looked  so  curiously  at  me. 

'  My  opinion  is,'  said  Peggotty,  taking  her  eyes  from  me,  after  a  little  indecision 
and  going  on  with  her  work,  '  that  I  never  was  married  myself.  Master  Davy,  and 
that  I  don't  expect  to  be.     That 's  all  I  know  about  the  subject.' 

'  You  an't  cross,  I  suppose,  Peggotty,  are  you  ?  '  said  I,  after  sitting  quiet  for  a 
minute. 

I  really  thought  she  was,  she  had  been  so  short  with  me  ;  but  I  was  quite 
mistaken  :  for  she  laid  aside  her  work  (which  was  a  stocking  of  her  own),  and  opening 
her  arms  wide,  took  my  curly  head  within  them,  and  gave  it  a  good  squeeze.  I  know 
it  was  a  good  squeeze,  because,  being  very  plmnp,  whenever  she  made  any  little  exertion 
after  she  was  dressed,  some  of  the  buttons  on  the  back  of  her  gown  flew  off.  And  I 
recollect  two  bursting  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  parlour,  while  she  was  hugging  me. 

'  Now  let  me  hear  some  more  about  the  Crorkindills,'  said  Peggotty,  who  was 
not  quite  right  in  the  name  yet,  '  for  I  an't  heard  half  enough.' 


12  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  couldn't  quite  understand  why  Peggotty  looked  so  queer,  or  why  she  was  so 
ready  to  go  back  to  the  crocodiles.  However,  we  returned  to  those  monsters,  with 
fresh  wakefulness  on  my  part,  and  we  left  their  eggs  in  the  sand  for  the  sun  to  hatch ; 
and  we  ran  away  from  them,  and  baffled  them  by  constantly  turning,  which  they 
were  unable  to  do  quickly,  on  account  of  their  unwieldy  make  ;  and  we  went  into 
the  water  after  them,  as  natives,  and  put  sharp  pieces  of  timber  down  their  throats  ; 
and  in  short  we  ran  the  whole  crocodile  gauntlet.  /  did,  at  least ;  but  I  had  my 
doubts  of  Peggotty,  who  was  thoughtfully  sticking  her  needle  into  various  parts  of 
her  face  and  arms  all  the  time. 

We  had  exhausted  the  crocodiles,  and  begun  with  the  alligators,  when  the 
garden-bell  rang.  We  went  out  to  the  door  ;  and  there  was  my  mother,  looking 
unusually  pretty,  I  thought,  and  with  her  a  gentleman  with  beautiful  black  hair 
and  whiskers,  who  had  walked  home  with  us  from  church  last  Sunday. 

As  my  mother  stooped  down  on  the  threshold  to  take  me  in  her  arms  and  kiss  me, 
the  gentleman  said  I  was  a  more  highly  privileged  little  fellow  than  a  monarch — or 
something  like  that ;  for  my  later  understanding  comes,  I  am  sensible,  to  my  aid  here. 

'  What  does  that  mean  ?  '  I  asked  him,  over  her  shoulder. 

He  patted  me  on  the  head  ;  but  somehow,  I  didn't  like  him  or  his  deep  voice, 
and  I  was  jealous  that  his  hand  should  touch  my  mother's  in  touching  me — which 
it  did.     I  put  it  away  as  well  as  I  could. 

'  Oh,  Davy  !  '  remonstrated  my  mother. 

'  Dear  boy  !  '  said  the  gentleman.     '  I  cannot  wonder  at  his  devotion  !  ' 

I  never  saw  such  a  beautiful  colour  on  my  mother's  face  before.  She  gently  chid 
me  for  being  rude  ;  and,  keeping  me  close  to  her  shawl,  turned  to  thank  the  gentle- 
man for  taking  so  much  trouble  as  to  bring  her  home.  She  put  out  her  hand  to  him 
as  she  spoke,  and,  as  he  met  it  with  his  own,  she  glanced,  I  thought,  at  me. 

'  Let  us  say  "  good  night,"  my  fine  boy,'  said  the  gentleman,  when  he  had 
bent  his  head — /  saw  him  ! — over  my  mother's  little  glove. 

'  Good  night  !  '  said  I. 

'  Come  !  Let  us  be  the  best  friends  in  the  world  ! '  said  the  gentleman,  laughing. 
'  Shake  hands  !  ' 

My  right  hand  was  in  my  mother's  left,  so  I  gave  him  the  other. 

'  Why,  that 's  the  wrong  hand,  Davy  !  '  laughed  the  gentleman. 

My  mother  drew  my  right  hand  forward,  but  I  was  resolved,  for  my  former 
reason,  not  to  give  it  him,  and  I  did  not.  I  gave  him  the  other,  and  he  shook  it 
heartily,  and  said  I  was  a  brave  fellow,  and  went  away. 

At  this  minute  I  see  him  turn  round  in  the  garden,  and  give  us  a  last  look  with 
his  ill-omened  black  eyes,  before  the  door  was  shut. 

Peggotty,  who  had  not  said  a  word  or  moved  a  finger,  secured  the  fastenings 
instantly,  and  we  all  went  into  the  parlour.  My  mother,  contrary  to  her  usual 
habit,  instead  of  coming  to  the  elbow-chair,  by  the  fire,  remained  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  and  sat  singing  to  herself. 

— '  Hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  evening,  ma'am,'  said  Peggotty,  standing  as 
stiff  as  a  barrel  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  with  a  candlestick  in  her  hand. 

'  Much  obliged  to  you,  Peggotty,'  returned  my  mother  in  a  cheerful  voice,  '  I 
have  had  a  very  pleasant  evening.' 

'  A  stranger  or  so  makes  an  agreeable  change,'  suggested  Peggotty. 

'  A  very  agreeable  change,  indeed,'  returned  my  mother. 


I  OBSERVE  18 

Peggotty  continuing  to  stand  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  my  mother 
resuming  her  singing,  I  fell  aslcc[),  though  I  was  not  so  sound  asleep  but  that  I  could  hear 
voices,  without  hearing  what  they  said.  When  I  half  awoke  from  this  uncomfortable 
doze,  I  found  Peggotty  and  my  mother  both  in  tears,  and  both  talking. 

'  Not  such  a  one  as  this,  Mr.  Copperheld  wouldn't  have  liked,'  said  Peggotty. 
'  That  I  say,  and  that  I  swear  1  ' 

'  Good  Heavens  !  '  cried  my  mother,  '  you  '11  drive  me  mad  !  Was  ever  any 
poor  girl  so  ill-used  by  her  servants  as  I  am  !  Why  do  I  do  myself  the  injustice  of 
calling  myself  a  girl  ?     Have  I  never  been  married,  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  God  knows  you  have,  ma'am,'  returned  Peggotty. 

'  Then,  how  can  you  dare,'  said  my  mother — '  you  know  I  don't  mean  how  can 
you  dare,  Peggotty,  but  how  can  you  have  the  heart — to  make  me  so  uncomfortable 
and  say  such  bitter  things  to  me,  when  you  are  well  aware  that  I  haven't,  out  of 
this  place,  a  single  friend  to  turn  to  ?  ' 

'  The  more  's  the  reason,'  returned  Peggotty,  '  for  saying  that  it  won't  do.  No  ! 
That  it  won't  do.  No  !  No  price  could  make  it  do.  No  !  ' — I  thought  Peggotty 
would  have  thrown  the  candlestick  away,  she  was  so  emphatic  with  it. 

'  How  can  you  be  so  aggravating,'  said  my  mother,  shedding  more  tears  than 
before,  '  as  to  talk  in  such  an  unjust  manner  ?  How  can  you  go  on  as  if  it  was  all 
settled  and  arranged,  Peggotty,  when  I  tell  you  over  and  over  again,  you  cruel  thing, 
that  beyond  the  commonest  civilities  nothing  has  passed  ?  You  talk  of  admiration. 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  If  people  are  so  silly  as  to  indulge  the  sentiment,  is  it  my  fault  ? 
What  am  I  to  do,  I  ask  you  ?  Would  j^ou  wish  me  to  shave  my  head  and  black  my 
face,  or  disfigure  myself  with  a  burn,  or  a  scald,  or  something  of  that  sort  ?  I  dare  say 
you  would,  Peggotty.     I  dare  say  you  'd  quite  enjoy  it.' 

Peggotty  seemed  to  take  this  aspersion  very  much  to  heart,  I  thought. 

'  And  my  dear  boy,'  cried  my  mother,  coming  to  the  elbow-chair  in  which  I  was, 
and  caressing  me,  '  my  own  little  Davy  !  Is  it  to  be  hinted  to  me  that  I  am  wanting 
in  affection  for  my  precious  treasure,  the  dearest  little  fellow  that  ever  was  ?  ' 

'  Nobody  never  went  and  hinted  no  such  a  thing,'  said  Peggotty. 

'  You  did,  Peggotty  !  '  returned  my  mother.  '  You  know  you  did.  \\Tiat  else 
was  it  possible  to  infer  from  what  you  said,  you  unkind  creature,  when  you  know 
as  well  as  I  do,  that  on  his  account  only  last  quarter  I  wouldn't  buy  myself  a  new 
parasol,  though  that  old  green  one  is  frayed  the  whole  way  up,  and  the  fringe  is 
perfectly  mangy  ?  You  know  it  is,  Peggotty  ;  you  can't  deny  it.'  Then,  turning 
affectionately  to  me,  with  her  cheek  against  mine,  '  Am  I  a  naughty  mamma  to  you, 
Davy  ?  Am  I  a  nasty,  cruel,  selfish,  bad  mamma  ?  Say  I  am,  my  child ;  say 
"  yes,"  dear  boy,  and  Peggotty  Avill  love  you ;  and  Peggotty's  love  is  a  deal  better 
than  mine,  Davy.     /  don't  love  you  at  all,  do  I  ?  ' 

At  this,  we  all  fell  a  crying  together.  I  think  I  was  the  loudest  of  the  party, 
but  I  am  sure  we  were  all  sincere  about  it.  I  was  quite  heart-broken  myself,  and  am 
afraid  that  in  the  first  transports  of  woimded  tenderness  I  called  Peggotty  a  '  beast.' 
That  honest  creature  was  in  deep  affliction,  I  remember,  and  must  have  become 
quite  buttonless  on  the  occasion  ;  for  a  little  volley  of  those  explosives  went  off, 
when,  after  having  made  it  up  with  my  mother,  she  kneeled  down  by  the  elbow- 
chair,  and  made  it  up  with  me. 

We  went  to  bed  greatly  dejected.  My  sobs  kept  waking  me,  for  a  long  time  ;  and 
when  one  very  strong  sob  quite  hoisted  me  up  in  bed,  I  found  my  mother  sitting  on 


14  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

the  coverlet,  and  leaning  over  me.     I  fell  asleep  in  her  arms,  after  that,  and  slept 
soundly. 

Whether  it  was  the  following  Simday  when  I  saw  the  gentleman  again,  or  whether 
there  was  any  greater  lapse  of  time  before  he  reappeared,  I  cannot  recall.  I  don't 
profess  to  be  clear  about  dates.  But  there  he  was,  in  church,  and  he  walked  home  with 
us  afterwards.  He  came  in,  too,  to  look  at  a  famous  geranium  we  had,  in  the  parlour 
window.  It  did  not  appear  to  me  that  he  took  much  notice  of  it,  but  before  he  went 
he  asked  my  mother  to  give  him  a  bit  of  the  blossom.  She  begged  him  to  choose 
it  for  himself,  but  he  refused  to  do  that — I  could  not  understand  why — so  she  plucked 
it  for  him,  and  gave  it  into  his  hand.  He  said  he  would  never,  never  part  with  it  any 
more  ;  and  I  thought  he  must  be  quite  a  fool  not  to  know  that  it  would  fall  to  pieces 
in  a  day  or  two. 

Peggotty  began  to  be  less  with  us,  of  an  evening,  than  she  had  always  been. 
My  mother  deferred  to  her  very  much — more  than  usual,  it  occurred  to  me — and  we 
were  all  three  excellent  friends  ;  still  we  were  different  from  what  we  used  to  be, 
and  were  not  so  comfortable  among  ourselves.  Sometimes  I  fancied  that  Peggotty 
perhaps  objected  to  my  mother's  wearing  all  the  pretty  dresses  she  had  in  her 
drawers,  or  to  her  going  so  often  to  visit  at  that  neighbour's ;  but  I  couldn't,  to  my 
satisfaction,  make  out  how  it  was. 

Gradually,  I  became  used  to  seeing  the  gentleman  with  the  black  whiskers. 
I  liked  him  no  better  than  at  first,  and  had  the  same  uneasy  jealousy  of  him  ;  but 
if  I  had  any  reason  for  it  beyond  a  child's  instinctive  dislike,  and  a  general  idea  that 
Peggotty  and  I  could  make  much  of  my  mother  without  any  help,  it  certainly 
was  not  the  reason  that  I  might  have  found  if  I  had  been  older.  No  such  thing 
came  into  my  mind,  or  near  it.  I  could  observe,  in  little  pieces,  as  it  were ;  but  as 
to  making  a  net  of  a  number  of  these  pieces,  and  catching  anybody  in  it,  that  was, 
as  yet,  beyond  me. 

One  autumn  morning  I  was  with  my  mother  in  the  front  garden,  when  Mr. 
Murdstone — I  knew  him  by  that  name  now — came  by,  on  horseback.  He  reined 
up  his  horse  to  salute  my  mother,  and  said  he  was  going  to  Lowestoft  to  see  some 
friends  who  were  there  with  a  yacht,  and  merrily  proposed  to  take  me  on  the  saddle 
before  him  if  I  would  like  the  ride. 

The  air  was  so  clear  and  pleasant,  and  the  horse  seemed  to  like  the  idea  of  the 
ride  so  much  himself,  as  he  stood  snorting  and  pawing  at  the  garden-gate,  that  I 
had  a  great  desire  to  go.  So  I  was  sent  upstairs  to  Peggotty  to  be  made  spruce  ;  and, 
in  the  meantime,  Mr.  Murdstone  dismounted,  and,  with  his  horse's  bridle  drawn 
over  his  arm,  walked  slowly  up  and  down  on  the  outer  side  of  the  sweetbriar  fence, 
while  my  mother  walked  slowly  up  and  down  on  the  inner,  to  keep  him  company.  I 
recollect  Peggotty  and  I  peeping  out  at  them  from  my  little  window  ;  I  recollect 
how  closely  they  seemed  to  be  examining  the  sweetbriar  between  them,  as  they  strolled 
along  ;  and  how,  from  being  in  a  perfectly  angelic  temper,  Peggotty  turned  cross  in  a 
moment,  and  brushed  my  hair  the  wrong  way,  excessively  hard. 

Mr.  Murdstone  and  I  were  soon  off,  and  trotting  along  on  the  green  turf  by  the 
side  of  the  road.  He  held  me  quite  easily  with  one  arm,  and  I  don't  think  I  was 
restless  usually  ;  but  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  sit  in  front  of  him  without 
turning  my  head  sometimes,  and  looking  up  in  his  face.  He  had  that  kind  of 
shallow  black  eye — I  want  a  better  word  to  express  an  eye  that  has  no  depth  in  it 
to  be  looked  into — which,  when  it  is  abstracted,  seems,  from  some  peculiarity  of  light, 


I  OliHERVE  15 

to  be  disfigured,  for  a  moment  at  a  time,  by  a  cast.  Several  times  when  I  glanced  at 
him,  I  observed  that  appearance  with  a  sort  of  awe,  and  wondered  what  he  was  thinking 
about  so  closely.  His  hair  and  whiskers  were  blacker  and  thicker,  looked  at  so  near, 
than  even  I  had  given  them  credit  for  being.  A  squareness  about  the  lower  part 
of  his  face,  and  the  dotted  indication  of  the  strong  black  beard  he  shaved  close  every 
day,  reminded  me  of  the  wax-work  that  had  travelled  into  our  neighbourhood  some 
half  a  year  before.  This,  his  regular  eyebrows,  and  the  rich  white,  and  black,  and 
brown,  of  his  complexion — confound  his  complexion,  and  his  memory  !— made  me 
think  him,  in  spite  of  my  misgivings,  a  very  handsome  man.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
my  poor  dear  mother  thought  him  so  too. 

We  went  to  an  hotel  by  the  sea,  where  two  gentlemen  were  smoking  cigars  in 
a  room  by  themselves.  Each  of  them  was  lying  on  at  least  four  chairs,  and  had 
a  large  rough  jacket  on.  In  a  comer  was  a  heap  of  coats  and  boat-cloaks,  and  a 
flag,  all  bundled  up  together. 

They  both  rolled  on  to  their  feet,  in  an  untidy  sort  of  manner,  when  we  came 
in,  and  said,  '  Halloa,  Murdstone  !     We  thought  you  were  dead  !  ' 

'  Not  yet,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

'  And  who  's  this  shaver  ?  '  said  one  of  the  gentlemen,  taking  hold  of  me. 

'  That 's  Davy,'  returned  Mr.  Murdstone. 

'  Davy  who  ?  '  said  the  gentleman.     '  Jones  ?  ' 

'  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

'  What  !  Bewitching  Mrs.  Copperfield's  incumbrance  ?  '  cried  the  gentleman. 
'  The  pretty  little  widow  ?  ' 

'  Quinion,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  '  take  care,  if  you  please.     Somebody  's  sharp.' 

'  Who  is  ?  '  asked  the  gentleman,  laughing. 

I  looked  up,  quickly  ;   being  curious  to  know. 

'  Only  Brooks  of  Sheffield,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

I  was  quite  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  only  Brooks  of  Sheffield  ;  for,  at  first,  I 
really  thought  it  was  I. 

There  seemed  to  be  something  very  comical  in  the  reputation  of  Mr.  Brooks 
of  Sheffield,  for  both  the  gentlemen  laughed  heartily  when  he  was  mentioned,  and 
Mr.  Murdstone  was  a  good  deal  amused  also.  After  some  laughing,  the  gentleman 
whom  he  had  called  Quinion  said— 

'  And  what  is  the  opinion  of  Brooks  of  Shefiield,  in  reference  to  the  projected 
business  ?  ' 

'  Why,  I  don't  know  that  Brooks  understands  much  about  it  at  present,'  replied 
Mr.  Murdstone  ;    '  but  he  is  not  generally  favourable,  I  believe.' 

There  was  more  laughter  at  this,  and  Mr.  Quinion  said  he  would  ring  the  bell 
for  some  sherry  in  which  to  drink  to  Brooks.  This  he  did  ;  and  when  the  wine 
came,  he  made  me  have  a  little,  with  a  biscuit,  and,  before  I  drank  it,  stand  up  and 
say,  '  Confusion  to  Brooks  of  Sheffield  !  '  The  toast  was  received  with  great  applause, 
and  such  hearty  laughter  that  it  made  me  laugh  too  ;  at  which  they  laughed  the  more. 
In  short,  we  quite  enjoyed  ourselves. 

We  walked  about  on  the  cliff  after  that,  and  sat  on  the  grass,  and  looked  at 
things  through  a  telescope — I  could  make  out  nothing  myself  when  it  was  put  to 
my  eye,  but  I  pretended  I  could — and  then  we  came  back  to  the  hotel  to  an  early 
dinner.  All  the  time  we  were  out,  the  two  gentlemen  smoked  incessantly — which, 
I  thought,  if  I  might  judge  from  the  smell  of  their  rough  coats,  they  must  have 


16  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

been  doing,  ever  since  the  coats  had  first  come  home  from  the  tailor's.  I  must  not 
forget  that  we  went  on  board  the  yacht,  where  they  all  three  descended  into  the 
cabin,  and  were  busy  with  some  papers.  I  saw  them  quite  hard  at  work,  when  I 
looked  down  through  the  open  skylight.  They  left  me,  during  this  time,  with  a 
very  nice  man,  with  a  very  large  head  of  red  hair  and  a  very  small  shiny  hat  upon 
it,  who  had  got  a  cross-barred  shirt  or  waistcoat  on,  with  '  Skylark  '  in  capital  letters 
across  the  chest.  I  thought  it  was  his  name ;  and  that  as  he  lived  on  board  ship 
and  hadn't  a  street-door  to  put  his  name  on,  he  put  it  there  instead  ;  but  when  I 
called  him  Mr.  Skylark,  he  said  it  meant  the  vessel. 

I  observed  all  day  that  Mr.  Murdstone  was  graver  and  steadier  than  the  two 
gentlemen.  They  were  very  gay  and  careless.  They  joked  freely  with  one  another, 
but  seldom  with  him.  It  appeared  to  me  that  he  was  more  clever  and  cold  than  they 
were,  and  that  they  regarded  him  with  something  of  my  own  feeling.  I  remarked 
that,  once  or  twice,  when  Mr.  Quinion  was  talking,  he  looked  at  Mr.  Murdstone 
sideways,  as  if  to  make  sure  of  his  not  being  displeased  ;  and  that  once  when  Mr. 
Passnidge  (the  other  gentleman)  was  in  high  spirits,  he  trod  upon  his  foot,  and  gave 
him  a  secret  caution  with  his  eyes,  to  observe  Mr.  Murdstone,  who  was  sitting  stem 
and  silent.  Nor  do  I  recollect  that  Mr.  Murdstone  laughed  at  all  that  day,  except 
at  the  Sheffield  joke — and  that,  by  the  bye,  was  his  own. 

We  went  home  early  in  the  evening.  It  was  a  very  fine  evening,  and  my 
mother  and  he  had  another  stroll  by  the  sweetbriar,  while  I  was  sent  in  to  get  my 
tea.  When  he  was  gone,  my  mother  asked  me  all  about  the  day  I  had  had,  and  what 
they  had  said  and  done.  I  mentioned  what  they  had  said  about  her,  and  she 
laughed,  and  told  me  they  were  impudent  fellows  who  talked  nonsense— but  I  knew 
it  pleased  her.  I  knew  it  quite  as  well  as  I  know  it  now.  I  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  asking  if  she  was  at  all  acquainted  with  Mr.  Brooks  of  Sheffield,  but  she 
answered  No,  only  she  supposed  he  must  be  a  manufacturer  in  the  knife  and 
fork  way. 

Can  I  say  of  her  face — altered  as  I  have  reason  to  remember  it,  perished  as  I 
know  it  is — that  it  is  gone,  when  here  it  comes  before  me  at  this  instant,  as  distinct 
as  any  face  that  I  may  choose  to  look  on  in  a  crowded  street  ?  Can  I  say  of  her 
innocent  and  girlish  beauty,  that  it  faded,  and  was  no  more,  when  its  breath  falls 
on  my  cheek  now,  as  it  fell  that  night  ?  Can  I  say  she  ever  changed,  when  my 
remembrance  brings  her  back  to  life,  thus  only  ;  and,  truer  to  its  loving  youth 
than  I  have  been,  or  man  ever  is,  still  holds  fast  what  it  cherished  then  ? 

I  write  of  her  just  as  she  was  when  I  had  gone  to  bed  after  this  talk,  and  she 
came  to  bid  me  good  night.  She  kneeled  down  playfully  by  the  side  of  the  bed, 
and  laying  her  chin  upon  her  hands,  and  laughing,  said — 

'  What  was  it  they  said,  Davy  ?     Tell  me  again.     I  can't  believe  it.' 

'  "  Bewitching "  '  I  began. 

My  mother  put  her  hands  upon  my  lips  to  stop  me. 

'  It  was  never  bewitching,'  she  said,  laughing.  '  It  never  could  have  been  bewitch- 
ing, Davy.     Now  I  know  it  wasn't  !  ' 

'  Yes  it  was.  "  Bewitching  Mrs.  Copperfield,"  '  I  repeated  stoutly.  '  And 
"  pretty."  ' 

'  No,  no,  it  was  never  pretty.  Not  pretty,'  interposed  my  mother,  laying  her 
fingers  on  my  lips  again. 

'  Yes  it  was.     "  Pretty  little  widow."  ' 


I  OBSERVE  17 

'  What  foolish,  impudent  creatures  !  '  cried  my  mother,  laughing  and  covering 
her  face.     '  What  ridiculous  men  !     An't  they  ?     Davy  dear ' 

'  Well,  ma.' 

'  Don't  tell  Peggotty ;  she  might  be  angry  with  them.  I  am  dreadfully  angry 
with  them  myself ;   but  I  would  rather  Peggotty  didn't  know.' 

I  promised,  of  course  ;  and  we  kissed  one  another  over  and  over  again,  and  I  soon 
fell  fast  asleep. 

It  seems  to  me,  at  this  distance  of  time,  as  if  it  were  the  next  day  when  Peggotty 
broached  the  striking  and  adventurous  proposition  I  am  about  to  mention  ;  but  it 
was  probably  about  two  months  afterwards. 

We  were  sitting  as  before,  one  evening  (when  my  mother  was  out  as  before),  in 
company  with  the  stocking  and  the  yard-measure,  and  the  bit  of  wax,  and  the  box 
with  Saint  Paul's  on  the  lid,  and  the  crocodile-book,  when  Peggotty,  after  looking  at 
me  several  times,  and  opening  her  mouth  as  if  she  were  going  to  speak,  without  doing 
it — which  I  thought  was  merely  gaping,  or  I  should  have  been  rather  alarmed — said 
coaxingly — 

'  Master  Davy,  how  should  you  like  to  go  along  with  me  and  spend  a  fortnight  at 
my  brother's  at  Yarmouth  ?     Wouldn't  that  be  a  treat  ?  ' 

'  Is  your  brother  an  agreeable  man,  Peggotty  ?  '  I  inquired,  provisionally. 

'  Oh,  what  an  agreeable  man  he  is  !  '  cried  Peggotty,  holding  up  her  hands.  '  Then 
there  's  the  sea  ;  and  the  boats  and  ships  ;  and  the  fishermen  ;  and  the  beach  ;  and 
Am  to  play  with— ' 

Peggotty  meant  her  nephew  Ham,  mentioned  in  my  first  chapter ;  but  she  spoke 
of  him  as  a  morsel  of  English  Grammar. 

I  was  flushed  by  her  summary  of  delights,  and  replied  that  it  would  indeed  be  a 
treat,  but  what  would  my  mother  say  ? 

'  Why  then  I  '11  as  good  as  bet  a  guinea,'  said  Peggotty,  intent  upon  my  face, 
'  that  she  '11  let  us  go.  I  'II  ask  her,  if  you  like,  as  soon  as  ever  she  comes  home.  There 
now  !  ' 

'  But  what 's  she  to  do  while  we  are  away  ?  '  said  I,  putting  my  small  elbows  on 
the  table  to  argue  the  point.     '  She  can't  live  by  herself.' 

If  Peggotty  were  looking  for  a  hole,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  the  heel  of  that  stocking, 
it  must  have  been  a  very  little  one  indeed,  and  not  worth  darning. 

'  I  say  !  Peggotty  !     She  can't  live  by  herself,  you  know.' 

'  Oh  bless  you  !  '  said  Peggotty,  looking  at  me  again  at  last.  '  Don't  you  know  ? 
She  's  going  to  stay  for  a  fortnight  with  Mrs.  Grayper.  Mrs.  Grayper  's  going  to  have  a 
lot  of  company.' 

Oh  !  If  that  was  it,  I  was  quite  ready  to  go.  I  waited,  in  the  utmost  impatience, 
until  my  mother  came  home  from  Mrs.  Grayper's  (for  it  was  that  identical  neighbour), 
to  ascertain  if  we  could  get  leave  to  carry  out  this  great  idea.  Without  being  nearly  so 
much  surprised  as  I  expected,  my  mother  entered  into  it  readily  ;  and  it  was  all  arranged 
that  night,  and  my  board  and  lodging  during  the  visit  were  to  be  paid  for. 

The  day  soon  came  for  our  going.  It  was  such  an  early  day  that  it  came  soon, 
even  to  me,  who  was  in  a  fever  of  expectation,  and  half  afraid  that  an  earthquake  or  a 
fiery  mountain,  or  some  other  great  convulsion  of  nature,  might  interpose  to  stop  the 
expedition.  We  were  to  go  in  a  carrier's  cart,  which  departed  in  the  morning  after 
breakfast.  I  would  have  given  any  money  to  have  been  allowed  to  wrap  myself  up 
overnight,  and  sleep  in  my  hat  and  boots. 


18  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

It  touches  me  nearly  now,  although  I  tell  it  lightly,  to  recollect  how  eager  I  was 
to  leave  my  happy  home  ;  to  think  how  little  I  suspected  what  I  did  leave  for  ever. 

I  am  glad  to  recollect  that  when  the  carrier's  cart  was  at  the  gate,  and  my  mother 
stood  there  kissing  me,  a  grateful  fondness  for  her  and  for  the  old  place  I  had  never 
turned  my  back  upon  before,  made  me  cry.  I  am  glad  to  know  that  my  mother  cried 
too,  and  that  I  felt  her  heart  beat  against  mine. 

I  am  glad  to  recollect  that  when  the  carrier  began  to  move,  my  mother  ran  out  at 
the  gate,  and  called  to  him  to  stop,  that  she  might  kiss  me  once  more.  I  am  glad  to 
dwell  upon  the  earnestness  and  love  with  which  she  lifted  up  her  face  to  mine,  and 
did  so. 

As  we  left  her  standing  in  the  road,  Mr.  Murdstone  came  up  to  where  she  was, 
and  seemed  to  expostulate  with  her  for  being  so  moved.  I  was  looking  back  round 
the  awning  of  the  cart,  and  wondered  what  business  it  was  of  his.  Peggotty,  who  was 
also  looking  back  on  the  other  side,  seemed  anything  but  satisfied  ;  as  the  face  she 
brought  back  in  the  cart  denoted. 

I  sat  looking  at  Peggotty  for  some  time,  in  a  reverie  on  this  suppositious  case  : 
whether,  if  she  were  employed  to  lose  me  like  the  boy  in  the  fairy  tale,  I  should  be 
able  to  track  my  way  home  again  by  the  buttons  she  would  shed. 


CHAPTER   III 

I     HAVE    A     CHANGE 

THE  carrier's  horse  was  the  laziest  horse  in  the  world,  I  should  hope,  and 
shuffled  along,  with  his  head  down,  as  if  he  liked  to  keep  people  waiting 
to  whom  the  packages  were  directed.  I  fancied,  indeed,  that  he  some- 
times chuckled  audibly  over  this  reflection,  but  the  carrier  said  he  was 
only  troubled  with  a  cough. 

The  carrier  had  a  way  of  keeping  his  head  down,  like  his  horse,  and  of  drooping 
sleepily  forward  as  he  drove,  with  one  of  his  arms  on  each  of  his  knees.  I  say  '  drove,' 
but  it  struck  me  that  the  cart  would  have  gone  to  Yarmouth  quite  as  well  without 
him,  for  the  horse  did  all  that ;  and  as  to  conversation,  he  had  no  idea  of  it  but  whistling. 

Peggotty  had  a  basket  of  refreshments  on  her  knee,  which  would  have  lasted  us 
out  handsomely,  if  we  had  been  going  to  London  by  the  same  conveyance.  We  ate  a 
good  deal,  and  slept  a  good  deal.  Peggotty  always  went  to  sleep  with  her  chin  upon 
the  handle  of  the  basket,  her  hold  of  which  never  relaxed  ;  and  I  could  not  have 
believed  unless  I  had  heard  her  do  it,  that  one  defenceless  woman  could  have  snored 
so  much. 

We  made  so  many  deviations  up  and  down  lanes,  and  were  such  a  long  time 
delivering  a  bedstead  at  a  public-house,  and  calling  at  other  places,  that  I  was  quite 
tired,  and  very  glad,  when  we  saw  Yarmouth.  It  looked  rather  spongy  and  soppy, 
I  thought,  as  I  carried  my  eye  over  the  great  dull  waste  that  lay  across  the  river  ;  and 
I  could  not  help  wondering,  if  the  world  were  really  as  round  as  my  geography-book 
said,  how  any  part  of  it  came  to  be  so  flat.  But  I  reflected  that  Yarmouth  might  be 
situated  at  one  of  the  poles  ;  which  would  account  for  it. 

As  we  drew  a  little  nearer,  and  saw  the-  whole  adjacent  prospect  lying  a  straight 


I   HAVE  A  CHANGE  19 

low  line  under  the  sky,  I  liinted  to  Peggotty  that  a  mound  or  so  might  have  improved^it ; 
and  also  that  if  the  land  had  been  a  little  more  separated  from  the  sea,  and  the  town 
and  the  tide  had  not  been  quite  so  much  mixed  up,  like  toast  and  water,  it  would  have 
been  nicer.  But  Pcggotty  said,  with  greater  emphasis  than  usual,  that  we  must 
take  things  as  we  found  them,  and  that,  for  her  part,  she  was  proud  to  call  herself  a 
Yarmouth  Bloater. 

When  we  got  into  the  street  (which  was  strange  enough  to  me),  and  smelt  the  fish, 
and  pitch,  and  oakum,  and  tar,  and  saw  the  sailors  walking  about,  and  the  carts  jingling 
up  and  down  over  the  stones,  I  felt  that  I  had  done  so  busy  a  place  an  injustice  ;  and 
said  as  much  to  Peggotty,  who  heard  my  expressions  of  delight  with  great  complacency, 
and  told  me  it  was  well  known  (I  suppose  to  those  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
bom  Bloaters)  that  Yarmouth  was,  upon  the  whole,  the  finest  place  in  the  universe. 

'  Here  's  my  Am  !  '  screamed  Peggotty,  '  growed  out  of  knowledge  !  ' 

He  was  waiting  for  us,  in  fact,  at  the  public-house  ;  and  asked  me  how  I  found 
myself,  like  an  old  acquaintance.  I  did  not  feel,  at  first,  that  I  knew  him  as  well  as  he 
knew  me,  because  he  had  never  come  to  our  house  since  the  night  I  was  bom,  and 
naturally  he  had  the  advantage  of  me.  But  our  intimacy  was  much  advanced  by  his 
taking  me  on  his  back  to  carry  me  home.  He  was,  now,  a  huge,  strong  fellow  of  six 
feet  high,  broad  in  proportion,  and  round-shouldered  ;  but  with  a  simpering  boy's  face 
and  curly  light  hair  that  gave  him  quite  a  sheepish  look.  He  was  dressed  in  a  canvas 
jacket,  and  a  pair  of  such  very  stiff  trousers  that  they  would  have  stood  quite  as  well 
alone,  without  any  legs  in  them.  And  you  couldn't  so  properly  have  said  he  wore  a 
hat,  as  that  he  was  covered  in  atop,  like  an  old  building,  with  something  pitchy. 

Ham  carrying  me  on  his  back  and  a  small  box  of  ours  under  his  arm,  and  Peggotty 
carrying  another  small  box  of  ours,  we  turned  down  lanes  bestrewn  with  bits  of  chips 
and  little  hillocks  of  sand,  and  went  past  gas-works,  rope-walks,  boat-builders'  yards, 
shipwrights'  yards,  ship-breakers'  yards,  caulkers'  yards,  riggers'  lofts,  smiths'  forges, 
and  a  great  litter  of  such  places,  until  we  came  out  upon  the  dull  waste  I  had  already 
seen  at  a  distance  ;  when  Ham  said — 

'  Yon  's  our  house,  Mas'r  Davy  !  ' 

I  looked  in  all  directions,  as  far  as  I  could  stare  over  the  wilderness,  and  away  at 
the  sea,  and  away  at  the  river,  but  no  house  could  /  make  out.  There  was  a  black 
barge,  or  some  other  kind  of  superannuated  boat,  not  far  off,  high  and  dry  on  the 
ground,  with  an  iron  funnel  sticking  out  of  it  for  a  chimney  and  smoking  very  cosily  ; 
but  nothing  else  in  the  way  of  a  habitation  that  was  visible  to  me. 

'  That 's  not  it  ?  '  said  I.     '  That  ship-looking  thing  ?  ' 

'  That 's  it,  Mas'r  Davy,'  returned  Ham. 

If  it  had  been  Aladdin's  palace,  roc's  egg  and  all,  I  suppose  I  could  not  have  been 
more  charmed  with  the  romantic  idea  of  living  in  it.  There  was  a  delightful  door  cut 
in  the  side,  and  it  was  roofed  in,  and  there  were  little  Mindows  in  it ;  but  the  wonderful 
charm  of  it  was,  that  it  was  a  real  boat  which  had  no  doubt  been  upon  the  water 
hundreds  of  times,  and  which  had  never  been  intended  to  be  lived  in,  on  dry  land. 
That  was  the  captivation  of  it  to  me.  If  it  had  ever  been  meant  to  be  lived  in,  I  might 
have  thought  it  small,  or  inconvenient,  or  lonely  ;  but  never  having  been  designed  for 
any  such  use,  it  became  a  perfect  abode. 

It  was  beautifully  clean  inside,  and  as  tidy  as  possible.  There  was  a  table,  and  a 
Dutch  clock,  and  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  on  the  chest  of  drawers  there  was  a  tea-tray 
with  a  painting  on  it  of  a  lady  with  a  parasol,  taking  a  walk  with  a  military-looking 


20  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

chOd  who  was  trundling  a  hoop.  The  tray  was  kept  from  tumbhng  down,  by  a  bible  ; 
and  the  tray,  if  it  had  tumbled  down,  would  have  smashed  a  quantity  of  cups  and 
saucers  and  a  teapot  that  were  grouped  around  the  book.  On  the  walls  there  were  some 
common  coloured  pictures,  framed  and  glazed,  of  scripture  subjects  ;  such  as  I  have 
never  seen  since  in  the  hands  of  pedlars,  without  seeing  the  whole  interior  of  Peggotty's 
brother's  house  again,  at  one  view.  Abraham  in  red  going  to  sacrifice  Isaac  in  blue, 
and  Daniel  in  yellow  cast  into  a  den  of  green  lions,  were  the  most  prominent  of  these. 
Over  the  httle  mantel-shelf,  was  a  picture  of  the  Sarah  Jane  lugger,  built  at  Sunderland, 
■vvith  a  real  little  wooden  stem  stuck  on  to  it ;  a  work  of  art,  combining  composition 
with  carpentry,  which  I  considered  to  be  one  of  the  most  enviable  possessions  that  the 
world  could  afford.  There  were  some  hooks  in  the  beams  of  the  ceiling,  the  use  of  which 
I  did  not  divine  then  ;  and  some  lockers  and  boxes  and  conveniences  of  that  sort, 
which  served  for  seats  and  eked  out  the  chairs. 

All  this,  I  saw  in  the  first  glance  after  I  crossed  the  threshold — child-like,  according 
to  my  theory — and  then  Peggotty  opened  a  little  door  and  showed  me  my  bedroom. 
It  was  the  completest  and  most  desirable  bedroom  ever  seen — in  the  stem  of  the  vessel ; 
with  a  httle  window,  where  the  rudder  used  to  go  through  ;  a  little  looking-glass,  just 
the  right  height  for  me,  nailed  against  the  wall,  and  framed  with  oyster-shells  ;  a  little 
bed,  which  there  was  just  room  enough  to  get  into  ;  and  a  nosegay  of  seaweed  in  a  blue 
mug  on  the  table.  The  walls  were  whitewashed  as  white  as  milk,  and  the  patchwork 
counterpane  made  my  eyes  quite  ache  with  its  brightness.  One  thing  I  particularly 
noticed  in  this  delightful  house,  was  the  smell  of  fish  ;  which  was  so  searching,  that  when 
I  took  out  my  pocket-handkerchief  to  wipe  my  nose,  I  found  it  smelt  exactly  as  if  it 
had  wrapped  up  a  lobster.  On  my  imparting  this  discovery  in  confidence  to  Peggotty, 
she  informed  me  that  her  brother  dealt  in  lobsters,  crabs,  and  crawfish  ;  and  I  after- 
wards found  that  a  heap  of  these  creatures,  in  a  state  of  wonderful  conglomeration  with 
one  another,  and  never  leaving  off  pinching  whatever  they  laid  hold  of,  were  usually 
to  be  found  in  a  little  wooden  outhouse  where  the  pots  and  kettles  were  kept. 

We  were  welcomed  by  a  very  civil  woman  in  a  white  apron,  whom  I  had  seen 
curtseying  at  the  door  when  I  was  on  Ham's  back,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  Like- 
wise by  a  most  beautiful  little  girl  (or  I  thought  her  so),  with  a  necklace  of  blue  beads 
on,  who  wouldn't  let  me  kiss  her  when  I  offered  to,  but  ran  away  and  hid  herself. 
By  and  by,  when  we  had  dined  in  a  sumptuous  manner  off  boiled  dabs,  melted  butter, 
and  potatoes,  with  a  chop  for  me,  a  hairy  man  with  a  very  good-natured  face  came 
home.  As  he  called  Peggotty  '  Lass,'  and  gave  her  a  hearty  smack  on  the  cheek,  I 
had  no  doubt,  from  the  general  propriety  of  her  conduct,  that  he  was  her  brother ; 
and  so  he  turned  out — being  presently  introduced  to  me  as  Mr.  Peggotty,  the  master 
of  the  house. 

'  Glad  to  see  you,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  You  '11  find  us  rough,  sir,  but  you  '11 
find  us  ready.' 

I  thanked  him,  and  replied  that  I  was  sure  I  should  be  happy  in  such  a  delightf\il 
place. 

'  How  's  your  ma,  sir  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty.     '  Did  you  leave  her  pretty  jolly  ?  ' 

I  gave  Mr.  Peggotty  to  understand  that  she  was  as  jolly  as  I  could  wish,  and  that 
she  desired  her  compliments — which  was  a  polite  fiction  on  my  part. 

'  I  'm  much  obleeged  to  her,  I  'm  sure,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  Well,  sir,  if  you  can 
make  out  here,  for  a  fortnut,  'long  wi'  her,'  nodding  at  his  sister,  '  and  Ham,  and  little 
Em'ly,  we  shall  be  proud  of  your  company.' 


I  HAVE  A  CHANGE  21 

Having  done  the  liono  irs  of  his  iiouse  in  this  hospitable  manner,  Mr.  Pcggotty 
went  out  to  wash  himself  in  a  kettleful  of  hot  water,  remarking  that  '  cold  would  never 
get  his  muck  off.'  He  soon  returned,  greatly  improved  in  appearance  ;  but  so  rubicund, 
that  I  couldn't  help  thinking  his  face  had  this  in  common  with  the  lobsters,  crabs,  and 
crawfish — that  it  went  into  the  hot  water  very  black  and  came  out  very  red. 

After  tea,  when  the  door  was  shut  and  all  was  made  snug  (the  nights  being  cold  and 
misty  now),  it  seemed  to  me  the  most  delicious  retreat  that  the  imagination  of  man 
could  conceive.  To  hear  the  wind  getting  up  out  at  sea,  to  know  that  the  fog  was 
creeping  over  the  desolate  flat  outside,  and  to  look  at  the  fire  and  think  that  there  was 
no  house  near  but  this  one,  and  this  one  a  boat,  was  like  enchantment.  Little  Em'ly 
had  overcome  her  shyness,  and  was  sitting  by  my  side  upon  the  lowest  and  least  of  the 
lockers,  which  was  just  large  enough  for  us  two,  and  just  fitted  into  the  chimney  comer. 
Mrs.  Peggotty,  with  the  white  apron,  was  knitting  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire. 
Peggotty  at  her  needlework  was  as  much  at  home  with  Saint  Paul's  and  the  bit  of  wax- 
candle,  as  if  they  had  never  known  any  other  roof.  Ham,  who  had  been  giving  me  my 
first  lesson  in  all-fours,  was  trying  to  recollect  a  scheme  of  telling  fortunes  with  the 
dirty  cards,  and  was  printing  off  fishy  impressions  of  his  thumb  on  all  the  cards  he 
turned.  Mr.  Peggotty  was  smoking  his  pipe.  I  felt  it  was  a  time  for  conversation  and 
confidence. 

'  Mr.  Peggotty  !  '  says  I. 

'  Sir,'  says  he. 

'  Did  you  give  your  son  the  name  of  Ham,  because  you  lived  in  a  sort  of  ark  ?  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty  seemed  to  think  it  a  deep  idea,  but  answered — 

'  No,  sir.     I  never  giv  him  no  name.' 

'  Who  gave  him  that  name,  then  ?  '  said  I,  putting  question  number  two  of  the 
catechism  to  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  Why,  sir,  his  father  giv  it  him,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  I  thought  you  were  his  father  ! ' 

'  My  brother  Joe  was  his  father,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  Dead,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  '  I  hinted,  after  a  respectful  pause. 

'  Drowndead,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  that  Mr.  Peggotty  was  not  Ham's  father,  and  began  to 
wonder  whetlier  I  was  mistaken  about  his  relationship  to  anybody  else  there.  I  was  so 
curious  to  know,  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  it  out  with  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  Little  Em'ly,'  I  said,  glancing  at  her.  '  She  is  your  daughter,  isn"t  she,  Mr. 
Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  No,  sir.     My  brother-in-law,  Tom,  was  her  father.' 

I  couldn't  help  it.  '  — Dead,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  '  I  hinted,  after  another  respectful 
silence. 

'  Drowndead,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

I  felt  the  difficulty  of  resuming  the  subject,  but  had  not  got  to  the  bottom  of  it 
yet,  and  must  get  to  the  bottom  somehow.     So  I  said — 

'  Haven't  you  any  children,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  No,  master,'  he  answered,  with  a  short  laugh.     '  I  'm  a  bacheldore.' 

'  A  bachelor  !  '  I  said,  astonished.  '  Why,  who  's  that,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  '  Pointing 
to  the  person  in  the  apron  who  was  knitting. 

'  That 's  Missis  Gummidge,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  Gummidge,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  ' 


22  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

But  at  this  point  Peggotty — I  mean  my  own  peculiar  Peggotty — made  such 
impressive  motions  to  me  not  to  ask  any  more  questions,  that  I  could  only  sit  and 
look  at  all  the  silent  company,  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Then,  in  the  privacy  of 
my  ovm  little  cabin,  she  informed  me  that  Ham  and  Em'ly  were  an  orphan  nephew 
and  niece,  whom  my  host  had  at  different  times  adopted  in  their  childhood,  when  they 
were  left  destitute  ;  and  that  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  the  widow  of  his  partner  in  a  boat, 
who  had  died  very  poor.  He  was  but  a  poor  man  himself,  said  Peggotty,  but  as  good 
as  gold  and  as  true  as  steel — those  were  her  similes.  The  only  subject,  she  informed  me, 
on  which  he  ever  showed  a  violent  temper  or  swore  an  oath,  was  this  generosity  of  his  ; 
and  if  it  were  ever  referred  to,  by  any  one  of  them,  he  struck  the  table  a  heavy  blow 
■ndth  his  right  hand  (had  split  it  on  one  such  occasion),  and  swore  a  dreadful  oath  that 
he  would  be  '  Gormed  '  if  he  didn't  cut  and  run  for  good,  if  it  was  ever  mentioned  again. 
It  appeared,  in  answer  to  my  inquiries,  that  nobody  had  the  least  idea  of  the  etymology 
of  this  terrible  verb  passive  to  be  gormed ;  but  that  they  all  regarded  it  as  constituting 
a  most  solemn  imprecation. 

I  was  very  sensible  of  my  entertainer's  goodness,  and  listened  to  the  woman's 
going  to  bed  in  another  little  crib  like  mine  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  boat,  and  to  him 
and  Ham  hanging  up  two  hammocks  for  themselves  on  the  hooks  I  had  noticed  in  the 
roof,  in  a  very  luxurious  state  of  mind,  enhanced  by  my  being  sleepy.  As  slumber 
gradually  stole  upon  me,  I  heard  the  wind  howling  out  at  sea  and  coming  on  across 
the  flat  so  fiercely,  that  I  had  a  lazy  apprehension  of  the  great  deep  rising  in  the  night. 
But  I  bethought  myself  that  I  was  in  a  boat,  after  all ;  and  that  a  man  like  Mr.  Peggotty 
was  not  a  bad  person  to  have  on  board  if  anji;hing  did  happen. 

Nothing  happened,  however,  worse  than  morning.  Almost  as  soon  as  it  shone 
upon  the  oyster-shell  frame  of  my  mirror  I  was  out  of  bed,  and  out  with  little  Em'ly, 
picking  up  stones  upon  the  beach. 

'  You  're  quite  a  saUor,  I  suppose  ?  '  I  said  to  Em'ly.  I  don't  know  that  I 
supposed  anything  of  the  kind,  but  I  felt  it  an  act  of  gallantry  to  say  something  ; 
and  a  shining  sail  close  to  us  made  such  a  pretty  little  image  of  itself,  at  the  moment, 
in  her  bright  eye,  that  it  came  into  my  head  to  say  this. 

'  No,'  replied  Em'ly,  shaking  her  head,  '  I  'm  afraid  of  the  sea.' 

'  Afraid  !  '  I  said,  with  a  becoming  air  of  boldness,  and  looking  very  big  at  the 
mighty  ocean.     '  /  an't !  ' 

'  Ah  !  but  it 's  cruel,'  said  Em'ly.  '  I  have  seen  it  very  cruel  to  some  of  our  men. 
I  have  seen  it  tear  a  boat  as  big  as  our  house  all  to  pieces.' 

'  I  hope  it  wasn't  the  boat  that ' 

'  That  father  was  drownded  in  ?  '  said  Em'ly.  '  No.  Not  that  one.  I  never  see 
that  boat.' 

'  Nor  him  ?  '  I  asked  her. 

Little  Em'ly  shook  her  head.     '  Not  to  remember  !  ' 

Here  was  a  coincidence  !  I  immediately  went  into  an  explanation  how  I  had 
never  seen  my  own  father  ;  and  how  my  mother  and  I  had  always  lived  by  ourselves  in 
the  happiest  state  imaginable,  and  lived  so  then,  and  always  meant  to  live  so  ;  and  how 
my  father's  grave  was  in  the  churchyard  near  our  house,  and  shaded  by  a  tree,  beneath 
the  boughs  of  which  I  had  walked  and  heard  the  birds  sing  many  a  pleasant  morning. 
But  there  were  some  differences  between  Em'ly's  orphanhood  and  mine,  it  appeared. 
She  had  lost  her  mother  before  her  father ;  and  where  her  father's  grave  was  no  one 
knew,  except  that  it  was  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 


I  HAVE  A  CHANGE  28 

'  Besides,'  said  Em'ly,  as  she  looked  about  for  shells  and  pebbles,  '  your  father  was 
a  gentleman  and  your  mother  is  a  lady  ;  and  my  father  was  a  fisherman  and  my 
mother  was  a  fisherman's  daughter,  and  my  uncle  Dan  is  a  fisherman.' 

'  Dan  is  Mr.  Peggotty,  is  he  ?  '  said  I. 

'  Uncle  Dan — yonder,'  answered  Em'ly,  nodding  at  the  boat-house. 

'  Yes.     I  mean  him.     He  must  be  very  good,  I  should  think  ?  ' 

'  Good  ?  '  said  Em'ly.  '  If  I  was  ever  to  be  a  lady,  I  'd  give  him  a  sky-blue  coat 
with  diamond  buttons,  nankeen  trousers,  a  red  velvet  waistcoat,  a  cocked  hat,  a  large 
gqld  watch,  a  silver  pipe,  and  a  box  of  money.' 

I  said  I  had  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Peggotty  well  deserved  these  treasures.  I  must 
acknowledge  that  I  felt  it  difficult  to  picture  him  quite  at  his  case  in  the  raiment 
proposed  for  him  by  his  grateful  little  niece,  and  that  I  was  particularly  doubtful  of  the 
policy  of  the  cocked  hat ;   but  I  kept  these  sentiments  to  myself. 

Little  Em'ly  had  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  sky  in  her  enumeration  of  these 
articles,  as  if  they  were  a  glorious  vision.  We  went  on  again,  picking  up  shells  and 
psbbles. 

'  You  would  like  to  be  a  lady  ?  '  I  said. 

Emily  looked  at  me,  and  laughed  and  nodded  '  yes.' 

'  I  should  lilce  it  very  much.  We  would  all  be  gentlefolks  together,  then.  Me, 
and  uncle,  and  Ham,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge.  We  wouldn't  mind  then,  when  there  come 
stormy  weather. — Not  for  our  own  sakes,  I  mean.  We  would  for  the  poor  fishermen's, 
to  be  sure,  and  we  'd  help  'em  with  money  when  they  come  to  any  hurt.' 

This  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  very  satisfactory,  and  therefore  not  at  all  improbable 
picture.  I  expressed  my  pleasure  in  the  contemplation  of  it,  and  little  Em'ly  was 
emboldened  to  say,  shyly — 

'  Don't  you  think  you  are  afraid  of  the  sea,  now  ?  ' 

It  was  quite  enough  to  reassure  me,  but  I  have  no  doubt  if  I  had  seen  a  moderately 
large  wave  come  tumbling  in,  I  should  have  taken  to  my  heels,  with  an  awful  recollec- 
tion of  her  drowned  relations.  However,  I  said  '  No,'  and  I  added,  '  You  don't  seem 
to  be,  either,  though  you  say  you  are  '  ; — for  she  was  walking  much  too  near  the  brink 
of  a  sort  of  old  jetty  or  wooden  causeway  we  had  strolled  upon,  and  I  was  afraid  of 
her  falling  over. 

'  I  'm  not  afraid  in  this  way,'  said  little  Em'ly.  '  But  I  wake  when  it  blows,  and 
tremble  to  think  of  uncle  Dan  and  Ham,  and  believe  I  hear  'em  crying  out  for  help. 
That 's  why  I  should  like  so  much  to  be  a  lady.  But  I  'm  not  afraid  in  this  way. 
Not  a  bit.     Look  here  !  ' 

She  started  from  my  side,  and  ran  along  a  jagged  timber  which  protruded  from  the 
place  we  stood  upon,  and  overhung  the  deep  water  at  some  height,  without  the  least 
defence.  The  incident  is  so  impressed  on  my  remembrance,  that  if  I  were  a  draughts- 
man I  could  draw  its  form  here,  I  dare  say,  accurately  as  it  was  that  day,  and  Uttle 
Em'ly  springing  forward  to  her  destruction  (as  it  appeared  to  me),  with  a  look  that  I 
have  never  forgotten,  directed  far  out  to  sea. 

The  light,  bold,  fluttering  little  figure  turned  and  came  back  safe  to  me,  and  I 
soon  laughed  at  my  fears,  and  at  the  cry  I  had  uttered  ;  fruitlessly  in  any  case,  for 
there  was  no  one  near.  But  there  have  been  times  since,  in  my  manhood,  many  times 
there  have  been,  when  I  have  thought.  Is  it  possible,  among  the  possibilities  of  hidden 
things,  that  in  the  sudden  rashness  of  the  child  and  her  wild  look  so  far  off,  there  was 
any  merciful  attraction  of  her  into  danger,  any  tempting  her  towards  him  permitted 


24  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

on  the  part  of  her  dead  father,  that  her  life  might  have  a  chance  of  ending  that  day. 
There  has  been  a  time  since  when  I  have  wondered  whether,  if  the  Hfe  before  her  could 
have  been  revealed  to  me  at  a  glance,  and  so  revealed  as  that  a  child  could  fully  com- 
prehend it,  and  if  her  preservation  could  have  depended  on  a  motion  of  my  hand,  I 
ought  to  have  held  it  up  to  save  her.  There  has  been  a  time  since — I  do  not  say  it 
lasted  long,  but  it  has  been — when  I  have  asked  myself  the  question,  would  it  have  been 
better  for  little  Em'ly  to  have  had  the  waters  close  above  her  head  that  morning  in 
my  sight ;   and  when  I  have  answered  Yes,  it  would  have  been. 

This  may  be  premature.  I  have  set  it  down  too  soon,  perhaps.  But  let  it 
stand. 

We  strolled  a  long  way,  and  loaded  ourselves  with  things  that  we  thought  curious, 
and  put  some  stranded  starfish  carefully  back  into  the  water — I  hardly  know  enough 
of  the  race  at  this  moment  to  be  quite  certain  whether  they  had  reason  to  feel  obliged 
to  us  for  doing  so,  or  the  reverse — and  then  made  our  way  home  to  Mr.  Peggotty's 
dwelling.  We  stopped  under  the  lee  of  the  lobster-outhouse  to  exchange  an  innocent 
kiss,  and  went  into  breakfast  glowing  with  health  and  pleasure. 

'  Like  two  young  mavishes,'  Mr.  Peggotty  said.  I  knew  this  meant,  in  our  local 
dialect,  like  two  young  thrushes,  and  received  it  as  a  compliment. 

Of  course  I  was  in  love  with  little  Em'ly.  I  am  sure  I  loved  that  baby  quite 
as  truly,  quite  as  tenderly,  with  greater  purity  and  more  disinterestedness,  than  can 
enter  into  the  best  love  of  a  later  time  of  life,  high  and  ennobling  as  it  is.  I  am  sure 
my  fancy  raised  up  something  round  that  blue-eyed  mite  of  a  child,  which  etherealised, 
and  made  a  very  angel  of  her.  If,  any  sunny  forenoon,  she  had  spread  a  little  pair  of 
wings,  and  flown  away  before  my  eyes,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  regarded  it  as  much 
more  than  I  had  had  reason  to  expect. 

We  used  to  walk  about  that  dim  old  flat  at  Yarmouth  in  a  loving  manner,  hours 
and  hours.  The  days  sported  by  us,  as  if  Time  had  not  grown  up  himself  yet,  but  were 
a  child  too,  and  always  at  play.  I  told  Em'ly  I  adored  her,  and  that  unless  she 
confessed  she  adored  me  I  should  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  killing  myself  with 
a  sword.     She  said  she  did,  and  I  have  no  doubt  she  did. 

As  to  any  sense  of  inequality,  or  youthfulness,  or  other  difficulty  in  our  way,  little 
Em'ly  and  I  had  no  such  trouble,  because  we  had  no  future.  We  made  no  more 
provision  for  growing  older,  than  we  did  for  growing  younger.  We  were  the  admiration 
of  Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Peggotty,  who  used  to  whisper  of  an  evening  when  we  sat 
lovingly,  on  our  little  locker  side  by  side,  '  Lor  !  wasn't  it  beautiful !  '  Mr.  Peggotty 
smiled  at  us  from  behind  his  pipe,  and  Ham  grinned  all  the  evening  and  did  nothing 
else.  They  had  something  of  the  sort  of  pleasure  in  us,  I  suppose,  that  they  might 
have  had  in  a  pretty  toy,  or  a  pocket  model  of  the  Colosseum. 

I  soon  found  out  that  Mrs.  Gummidge  did  not  always  make  herself  so  agreeable 
as  she  might  have  been  expected  to  do,  under  the  circumstances  of  her  residence  with 
Mr.  Peggotty.  Mrs.  Gummidge's  was  rather  a  fretful  disposition,  and  she  whimpered 
more  sometimes  than  was  comfortable  for  other  parties  in  so  small  an  establishment. 
I  was  very  sorry  for  her  ;  but  there  were  moments  when  it  would  have  been  more 
agreeable,  I  thought,  if  Mrs.  Gummidge  had  had  a  convenient  apartment  of  her  own  to 
retire  to,  and  had  stopped  there  until  her  spirits  revived. 

Mr.  Peggotty  went  occasionally  to  a  public-house  called  The  Willing  Mind.  I 
discovered  this,  by  his  being  out  on  the  second  or  third  evening  of  our  visit,  and  by 
Mrs.  Gummidge's  looking  up  at  the  Dutch  clock,  between  eight  and  nine,  and  saying 


I  OBSERVE 

'  I  have  an  imjircsriion  on  my  mind  which  I  cannot  distinguish  from  actual 
rcmombrancc.  of  the  toucli  of  Peggotty's  fore  flngir  as  slic  nscd  to  hold  it 
out  lo  nic,  and  of  its  being  roughened  by  needlework,  like  a  pocket  nutmeg- 
grater.'  {Page  9) 


f 


I  HAVE  A  CHANGE  25 

he  was  there,  and  that,  what  was  more,  she  had  known  in  tlie  morning  he  would 
go  there. 

Mrs.  Gummidge  had  been  in  a  low  state  all  day,  and  had  burst  into  tears  in  the  fore- 
noon, when  the  fire  smoked.  '  I  am  a  lone  lorn  creetur','  were  Mrs.  Cliimmidge's  words, 
when  that  unpleasant  occurrence  took  place,  '  and  everythink  goes  contrairy  with  me.' 

'  Oh,  it  '11  soon  leave  off,'  said  Peggotty — I  again  mean  our  Peggotty — '  and 
besides,  you  know,  it 's  not  more  disagreeable  to  you  than  to  us.' 

'  I  feel  it  more,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 

It  was  a  very  cold  day,  with  cutting  blasts  of  wind.  Mrs.  Gummidge's  peculiar 
comer  of  the  fireside  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  warmest  and  snuggest  in  the  place,  as  her 
chair  was  certainly  the  easiest,  but  it  didn't  suit  her  that  day  at  all.  She  was  con- 
stantly complaining  of  the  cold,  and  of  its  occasioning  a  visitation  in  her  back  which 
she  called  '  the  creeps.'  At  last  she  shed  tears  on  that  subject,  and  said  again  that 
she  was  '  a  lone  lorn  creetur'  and  everythink  went  contrairy  with  her.' 

'  It  is  certainly  very  cold,'  said  Peggotty.     '  Everybody  must  feel  it  so.' 

'  I  feel  it  more  than  other  people,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 

So  at  dinner  ;  when  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  always  helped  immediately  after  me,  to 
whom  the  preference  was  given  as  a  visitor  of  distinction.  The  fish  was  small  and  bony, 
and  the  potatoes  were  a  little  burnt.  We  all  acknowledged  that  we  felt  this  something 
of  a  disappointment ;  but  Mrs.  Gummidge  said  she  felt  it  more  than  we  did,  and  shed 
tears  again,  and  made  that  former  declaration  with  great  bitterness. 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Peggotty  came  home  about  nine  o'clock,  this  unfortunate 
Mrs.  Gummidge  was  knitting  in  her  corner,  in  a  very  wretched  and  miserable  condition. 
Peggotty  had  been  working  cheerfully.  Ham  had  been  patching  up  a  great  pair  of 
water-boots  ;  and  I,  with  little  Em'ly  by  my  side,  had  been  reading  to  them.  Mrs. 
Gummidge  had  never  made  any  other  remark  than  a  forlorn  sigh,  and  had  never  raised 
her  eyes  since  tea. 

'  Well,  mates,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  taking  his  seat,  '  and  how  are  you  ?  ' 

We  all  said  something,  or  looked  something,  to  welcome  him,  except  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  who  only  shook  her  head  over  her  knitting. 

'  \Vhat  's  amiss  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  clap  of  his  hands.  '  Cheer  up,  old 
mawther  !  '     (Mr.  Peggotty  meant  old  girl.) 

Mrs.  Gummidge  did  not  appear  to  be  able  to  cheer  up.  She  took  out  an  old  black 
silk  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  eyes  ;  but  instead  of  putting  it  in  her  pocket,  kept  it 
out,  and  wiped  them  again,  and  still  kept  it  out,  ready  for  use. 

'  What 's  amiss,  dame  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  Nothing,'  returned  Mrs.  Gummidge.  '  You  've  come  from  The  Willing  Mind, 
Dan'l  ?  ' 

'  Why  yes,  I  've  took  a  short  spell  at  The  Willing  Mind  to-night,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  I  'm  sorry  I  should  drive  you  there,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 

'  Drive  !  I  don't  want  no  driving,'  returned  IMr.  Peggotty,  with  an  honest  laugh. 
'  I  only  go  too  ready.' 

'  Very  ready,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge,  shaking  her  head,  and  wiping  her  eyes.  '  Yes, 
yes,  very  ready.     I  am  sorry  it  should  be  along  of  me  that  you  're  so  ready.' 

'  Along  o'  you  !  It  an't  along  o'  you  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  Don't  ye  believe  a 
bit  on  it.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  it  is,'  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge.  '  I  know  what  I  am.  I  know  that  I  am 
a  lone  lorn  creetur',  and  not  only  that  everythink  goes  contrair>  with  me,  but  that 


26  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

I  go  contrairy  with  everybody.  Yes,  yes,  I  feel  more  than  other  people  do,  and  I 
show  it  more.     It 's  my  misfortun'.' 

I  really  couldn't  help  thinking,  as  I  sat  taking  in  all  this,  that  the  misfortune 
extended  to  some  other  members  of  that  family  besides  Mrs.  Gummidge.  But  Mr. 
Peggotty  made  no  such  retort,  only  answering  with  another  entreaty  to  Mrs.  Gummidge 
to  cheer  up. 

'  I  an't  what  I  could  wish  myself  to  be,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge.  '  I  am  far  from  it. 
I  know  what  I  am.  My  troubles  has  made  me  contrairy.  I  feel  my  troubles,  and  they 
make  me  contrairy.  I  wish  I  didn't  feel  'em,  but  I  do.  I  wish  I  could  be  hardened 
to  'em,  but  I  an't.  I  make  the  house  uncomfortable.  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  I  've 
made  your  sister  so  all  day,  and  Master  Davy.' 

Here  I  was  suddenly  melted,  and  roared  out,  '  No,  you  haven't,  Mrs.  Gimimidge,' 
in  great  mental  distress. 

'  It 's  far  from  right  that  I  should  do  it,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge.  '  It  an't  a  fit 
return.  I  had  better  go  into  the  house  and  die.  I  am  a  lone  lorn  creetur',  and  had 
much  better  not  make  myself  contrairy-  here.  If  thinks  must  go  contrairy  with  me,  and 
I  must  go  contrairy  myself,  let  me  go  contrairy  in  my  parish.  Dan'l,  I  'd  better  go 
into  the  house,  and  die  and  be  a  riddance  !  ' 

Mrs.  Gummidge  retired  with  these  words,  and  betook  herself  to  bed.  When  she 
was  gone,  Mr.  Peggotty,  who  had  not  exhibited  a  trace  of  any  feeling  but  the 
profoundest  sympathy,  looked  round  upon  us,  and  nodding  his  head  with  a  lively 
expression  of  that  sentiment  still  animating  his  face,  said  in  a  whisper — 

'  She  's  been  thinking  of  the  old  'un  !  ' 

I  did  not  quite  understand  what  old  one  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  supposed  to  have 
fixed  her  mind  upon,  until  Peggotty,  on  seeing  me  to  bed,  explained  that  it  was  the  late 
Mr.  Gummidge  ;  and  that  her  brother  always  took  that  for  a  received  truth  on  such 
occasions,  and  that  it  always  had  a  moving  effect  upon  him.  Some  time  after  he 
was  in  his  hammock  that  night,  I  heard  him  myself  repeat  to  Ham,  '  Poor  thing  ! 
She  's  been  thinking  of  the  old  'un  !  '  And  whenever  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  overcome 
in  a  similar  manner  during  the  remainder  of  our  stay  (which  happened  some  few 
times),  he  always  said  the  same  thing  in  extenuation  of  the  circumstance,  and  always 
with  the  tenderest  commiseration. 

So  the  fortnight  slipped  away,  varied  by  nothing  but  the  variation  of  the  tide, 
which  altered  Mr.  Peggotty's  times  of  going  out  and  coming  in,  and  altered  Ham's 
engagements  also.  When  the  latter  was  unemployed,  he  sometimes  walked  with  us  to 
show  us  the  boats  and  ships,  and  once  or  twice  he  took  us  for  a  row.  I  don't  know 
why  one  slight  set  of  impressions  should  be  more  particularly  associated  with  a  place 
than  another,  though  I  believe  this  obtains  with  most  people,  in  reference  especially 
to  the  associations  of  their  childhood.  I  never  hear  the  name,  or  read  the  name,  of 
Yarmouth,  but  I  am  reminded  of  a  certain  Sunday  morning  on  the  beach,  the  bells 
ringing  for  church,  little  Em'ly  leaning  on  my  shoulder.  Ham  lazily  dropping  stones 
into  the  water,  and  the  sun,  away  at  sea,  just  breaking  through  the  heavy  mist,  and 
showing  us  the  ships,  like  their  own  shadows. 

At  last  the  day  came  for  going  home.  I  bore  up  against  the  separation  from  Mr. 
Peggotty  and  Mrs.  Gummidge,  but  my  agony  of  mind  at  leaving  little  Em'ly  was 
piercing.  We  went  arm-in-arm  to  the  public-house  where  the  carrier  put  up,  and  I 
promised,  on  the  road,  to  write  to  her.  (I  redeemed  that  promise  afterwards,  in 
characters  larger  than  those  in  which  apartments  are  usually  announced  in  manuscript. 


T  HAVi:  A   (JHANCK  27 

as  beiiif^  to  let.)     Wc  were  greatly  overcome  at  partinj^ ;    and  if  ever,  in  my  life,  I 
have  had  a  void  made  in  my  heart,  I  had  one  made  that  day. 

Now,  all  the  time  I  had  been  on  my  visit,  I  had  been  ungrateful  to  my  home  again, 
and  had  thought  little  or  nothing  about  it.  Hut  I  was  no  sooner  tunied  towards  it, 
than  my  reproachful  young  conscience  seemed  to  point  that  way  with  a  steatiy  finger  ; 
and  I  felt,  all  the  more  for  the  sinking  of  my  spirits,  that  it  was  my  nest,  and  that  my 
mother  was  my  comforter  and  friend. 

This  gained  upon  me  as  we  went  along  ;  so  that  the  nearer  we  drew,  and  the 
more  familiar  the  objects  became  that  we  passed,  the  more  excited  I  was  to  get  there, 
and  to  rush  into  her  arms.  But  Peggotty,  instead  of  sharing  in  these  transports,  tried 
to  check  them  (though  very  kindly),  and  looked  confused  and  out  of  sorts. 

Blunderstone  Rookery  would  come,  however,  in  spite  of  her,  when  the  carrier's 
horse  pleased — and  did.  How  well  I  recollect  it,  on  a  cold  grey  afternoon,  with  a  dull 
sky,  threatening  rain  ! 

The  door  opened,  and  I  looked,  half  laughing  and  half  crying  in  my  pleasant 
agitation,  for  my  mother.     It  was  not  she,  but  a  strange  servant. 

'  Why,  Peggotty  1  '  I  said,  ruefully,  '  isn't  she  come  home  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes.  Master  Davy,'  said  Peggotty.  '  She  's  come  home.  Wait  a  bit.  Master 
Davy,  and  I  '11^1  '11  tell  you  something.' 

Between  her  agitation,  and  her  natural  awkwardness  in  getting  out  of  the  cart, 
Peggotty  was  making  a  most  extraordinary  festoon  of  herself,  but  I  felt  too  blank  and 
strange  to  tell  her  so.  When  she  had  got  down,  she  took  me  by  the  hand  ;  led  me, 
wondering,  into  the  kitchen  ;   and  shut  the  door. 

'  Peggotty  !  '  said  I,  quite  frightened.     '  What 's  the  matter  ?  ' 

'  Nothing  's  the  matter,  bless  you.  Master  Davy,  dear  !  '  she  answered,  assuming 
an  air  of  sprightliness. 

'  Something  's  the  matter,  I  'm  sure.     Where  's  mamma  ?  ' 

'  Where  's  mamma,  Master  Davy  ?  '  repeated  Peggotty. 

'  Yes.  Wliy  hasn't  she  come  out  to  the  gate,  and  what  have  we  come  in  here  for  ? 
Oh,  Peggotty  !  '     My  eyes  were  full,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  going  to  tumble  down. 

'  Bless  the  precious  boy  !  '  cried  Peggotty,  taking  hold  of  me.  '  What  is  it  ? 
Speak,  my  pet  !  ' 

'  Not  dead,  too  !     Oh,  she  's  not  dead,  Peggotty  ?  ' 

Peggotty  cried  out  No  !  with  an  astonishing  volume  of  voice  ;  and  then  sat 
down,  and  began  to  pant,  and  said  I  had  given  her  a  turn. 

I  gave  her  a  hug  to  take  away  the  turn,  or  to  give  her  another  turn  in  the  right 
direction,  and  then  stood  before  her,  looking  at  her  in  anxious  inquiry. 

'  You  see,  dear,  I  should  have  told  you  before  now,'  said  Peggotty,  '  but  I  hadn't 
an  opportunity.  I  ought  to  have  made  it,  perhaps,  but  I  couldn't  azackly  ' — that  was 
always  the  substitute  for  exactly,  in  Peggotty's  militia  of  words—'  bring  my  mind  to  it.' 

'  Go  on,  Peggotty,'  said  I,  more  frightened  than  before. 

'  Master  Davy,'  said  Peggotty,  untying  her  bonnet  with  a  shaking  hand,  and 
speaking  in  a  breathless  sort  of  way.     '  What  do  you  think  ?     You  have  got  a  pa  !  ' 

I  trembled,  and  turned  white.  Something — I  don't  know  what,  or  how — con- 
nected with  the  grave  in  the  churchyard,  and  the  raising  of  the  dead,  seemed  to  strike 
me  like  an  unwholesome  wind. 

'  A  new  one,'  said  Peggotty. 

'  A  new  one  ?  '  I  repeated. 


28  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Peggotty  gave  a  gasp,  as  if  she  were  swallowing  something  that  was  very  hard, 
and,  putting  out  her  hand,  said — 

'  Come  and  see  him.' 

'  I  don't  want  to  see  him.' 

— '  And  your  mamma,'  said  Peggotty. 

I  ceased  to  draw  back,  and  we  went  straight  to  the  best  parlour,  where  she  left 
me.  On  one  side  of  the  fire  sat  my  mother  ;  on  the  other,  Mr.  Murdstone.  My  mother 
dropped  her  work,  and  arose  hurriedly,  but  timidly  I  thought. 

'  Now,  Clara,  my  dear,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone.  '  Recollect !  control  yourself, 
always  control  yourself  !     Davy  boy,  how  do  you  do  ?  ' 

I  gave  him  my  hand.  After  a  moment  of  suspense,  I  went  and  kissed  my  mother  : 
she  kissed  me,  patted  me  gently  on  the  shoulder,  and  sat  down  again  to  her  work. 
I  could  not  look  at  her,  I  could  not  look  at  him,  I  knew  quite  well  that  he  was  looking 
at  us  both  ;  and  I  turned  to  the  window  and  looked  out  there  at  some  shrubs  that  were 
drooping  their  heads  in  the  cold. 

As  soon  as  I  could  creep  away,  I  crept  upstairs.  My  old  dear  bedroom  was  changed, 
and  I  was  to  lie  a  long  way  off.  I  rambled  downstairs  to  find  anything  that  was  like 
itself,  so  altered  it  all  seemed  ;  and  roamed  into  the  yard.  I  very  soon  started  back 
from  there,  for  the  empty  dog-kennel  was  filled  up  with  a  great  dog — deep-mouthed 
and  black-haired  like  Him — and  he  was  very  angry  at  the  sight  of  me,  and  sprang  out 
to  get  at  me. 


CHAPTER    IV 

I    FALL    INTO    DISGRACE 

IF  the  room  to  which  my  bed  was  removed  were  a  sentient  thing  that  could  give 
evidence,  I  might  appeal  to  it  at  this  day — who  sleeps  there  now,  I  wonder  ! — 
to  bear  witness  for  me  what  a  heavy  heart  I  carried  to  it.  I  went  up  there, 
hearing  the  dog  in  the  yard  bark  after  me  all  the  way  while  I  climbed  the  stairs  ; 
and,  looking  as  blank  and  strange  upon  the  room  as  the  room  looked  upon  me,  sat  down 
with  my  small  hands  crossed,  and  thought. 

I  thought  of  the  oddest  things.  Of  the  shape  of  the  room,  of  the  cracks  in  the 
ceiling,  of  the  paper  on  the  wall,  of  the  flaws  in  the  window-glass  making  ripples  and 
dimples  on  the  prospect,  of  the  washing-stand  being  rickety  on  its  three  legs,  and  having 
a  discontented  something  about  it,  which  reminded  me  of  Mrs.  Gummidge  under  the 
influence  of  the  old  one.  I  was  crying  all  the  time,  but,  except  that  I  was  conscious 
of  being  cold  and  dejected,  I  am  sure  I  never  thought  why  I  cried.  At  last  in  my 
desolation  I  began  to  consider  that  I  was  dreadfully  in  love  with  little  Em'ly,  and 
had  been  torn  away  from  her  to  come  here  where  no  one  seemed  to  want  me,  or  to  care 
about  me,  half  as  much  as  she  did.  This  made  such  a  very  miserable  piece  of  business 
of  it,  that  I  rolled  myself  up  in  a  corner  of  the  counterpane,  and  cried  myself  to  sleep. 
I  was  awakened  by  somebody  saying,  '  Here  he  is  !  '  and  uncovering  my  hot  head. 
My  mother  and  Peggotty  had  come  to  look  for  me,  and  it  was  one  of  them  who  had 
done  it. 

'  Davy,'  said  ray  mother.     '  What 's  the  matter  ?  ' 


I  FALL  INTO  DISGRACE  29 

I  thought  it  was  very  strange  that  slie  should  ask  me,  and  answered,  '  Nothing.' 
I  turned  over  on  my  face,  I  recollect,  to  hide  my  trembling  lip,  which  answered  her 
with  greater  truth. 

'  Davy,'  said  my  mother.     '  Davy,  my  cliild  !  ' 

I  dare  say  no  words  she  could  have  uttered  would  have  affected  me  so  much, 
then,  as  her  calling  me  her  child.  I  hid  my  tears  in  the  bedclothes,  and  pressed  her 
from  me  with  my  hand,  when  she  would  have  raised  me  up. 

'  This  is  your  doing,  Peggotty,  you  cruel  thing  !  '  said  my  mother.  '  I  have 
no  doubt  at  all  about  it.  How  can  you  reconcile  it  to  your  conscience,  I  wonder,  to 
prejudice  my  own  boy  against  me,  or  against  anybody  who  is  dear  to  me  ?  What  do 
you  mean  by  it,  Peggotty  ?  ' 

Poor  Peggotty  lifted  up  her  hands  and  eyes,  and  only  answered,  in  a  sort  of 
paraphrase  of  the  grace  I  usually  repeated  after  dinner,  '  Lord  forgive  you,  Mrs. 
Copperfield,  and  for  what  you  have  said  this  minute,  may  you  never  be  truly  sorry  !  ' 

'  It  's  enough  to  distract  me,'  cried  my  mother.  '  In  my  honeymoon,  too,  when 
my  most  inveterate  enemy  might  relent,  one  would  think,  and  not  envy  me  a  little 
peace  of  mind  and  happiness.  Davy,  you  naughty  boy  !  Peggotty,  you  savage 
creature  !  Oh,  dear  me  !  '  cried  my  mother,  turning  from  one  of  us  to  the  other,  in 
her  pettish,  wilful  manner.  '  What  a  troublesome  world  this  is,  when  one  has  the 
most  right  to  expect  it  to  be  as  agreeable  as  possible  !  ' 

I  felt  the  touch  of  a  hand  that  I  knew  was  neither  hers  nor  Peggotty's,  and  slipped 
to  my  feet  at  the  bedside.  It  was  Mr.  Murdstone's  hand,  and  he  kept  it  on  my  arm  as 
he  said — 

'  What  's  this  ?     Clara,  my  love,  have  you  forgotten  ? — Firmness,  my  dear  !  ' 
'  I  am  very  sorry,  Edward,'  said  my  mother.     '  I  meant  to  be  very  good,  but  I  am 
so  uncomfortable.' 

'  Indeed  !  '  he  answered.     '  That  's  a  bad  hearing,  so  soon,  Clara.' 
'  I  say  it 's  very  hard  I  should  be  made  so  now,'  returned  my  mother,  pouting  ; 
'  and  it  is — very  hard — isn't  it  ?  ' 

He  drew  her  to  him,  whispered  in  her  ear,  and  kissed  her.  I  knew  as  well,  when 
I  saw  my  mother's  head  lean  down  upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  arm  touch  his  neck — 
I  knew  as  well  that  he  could  mould  her  pliant  nature  into  any  form  he  chose,  as  I 
know,  now,  that  he  did  it. 

'  Go  you  below,  my  love,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone.  '  David  and  I  will  come  down 
together.  My  friend,'  turning  a  darkening  face  on  Peggotty,  when  he  had  watched 
my  mother  out,  and  dismissed  her  with  a  nod  and  a  smile  :  '  do  you  know  your 
mistress's  name  ?  ' 

'  She  has  been  my  mistress  a  long  time,  sir,'  answered  Peggotty.  '  I  ought  to 
know  it.' 

'  That 's  true,'  he  answered.  '  But  I  thought  I  heard  you,  as  I  came  upstairs, 
address  her  by  a  name  that  is  not  hers.  She  has  taken  mine,  you  know.  Will  you 
remember  that  ?  ' 

Peggotty,  with  some  uneasy  glances  at  me,  curtseyed  herself  out  of  the  room 
without  replying  ;  seeing,  I  suppose,  that  she  was  expected  to  go,  and  had  no  excuse 
for  remaining.  When  we  two  were  left  alone,  he  shut  the  door,  and  sitting  on  a  chair, 
and  holding  me  standing  before  him,  looked  steadily  into  my  eyes.  I  felt  ray  own 
attracted,  no  less  steadily,  to  his.  As  I  recall  our  being  opposed  thus,  face  to  face,  I 
seem  again  to  hear  my  heart  beat  fast  and  high. 


80  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  David,'  he  said,  making  his  Ups  thin,  by  pressing  them  together,  '  if  I  hare  an 
obstinate  horse  or  dog  to  deal  with,  what  do  you  think  I  do  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

'  I  beat  him.' 

I  had  answered  in  a  kind  of  breathless  whisper,  but  I  felt,  in  my  silence,  that  my 
breath  was  shorter  now. 

'  I  make  him  wince,  and  smart.  I  say  to  myself,  "  I  '11  conquer  that  fellow  "  ; 
and  if  it  were  to  cost  him  all  the  blood  he  had,  I  should  do  it.  \Miat  is  that  upon 
your  face  ?  ' 

'  Dirt,'  I  said. 

He  knew  it  was  the  mark  of  tears  as  well  as  I.  But  if  he  had  asked  the  question 
twenty  times,  each  time  with  twenty  blows,  I  believe  my  baby  heart  would  have  burst 
before  I  would  have  told  him  so. 

'  You  have  a  good  deal  of  intelligence  for  a  little  fellow,'  he  said,  with  a  grave 
smile  that  belonged  to  him,  '  and  you  understood  me  very  well,  I  see.  Wash  that  face, 
sir,  and  come  down  with  me.' 

He  pointed  to  the  washing-stand,  which  I  had  made  out  to  be  like  Mrs.  Gummidge, 
and  motioned  me  with  his  head  to  obey  him  directly.  I  had  little  doubt  then,  and  I 
have  less  doubt  now,  that  he  would  have  knocked  me  down  without  the  least  com- 
punction, if  I  had  hesitated. 

'  Clara,  my  dear,'  he  said,  when  I  had  done  his  bidding,  and  he  walked  me  into  the 
parlour,  with  his  hand  still  on  my  arm  ;  '  you  will  not  be  made  uncomfortable  any 
more,  I  hope.     We  shall  soon  improve  our  youthful  humours.' 

God  help  me,  I  might  have  been  improved  for  my  whole  life,  I  might  have  been 
made  another  creature  perhaps,  for  life,  by  a  kind  word  at  that  season.  A  word  of 
encouragement  and  explanation,  of  pity  for  my  childish  ignorance,  of  welcome  home, 
of  reassurance  to  me  that  it  was  home,  might  have  made  me  dutiful  to  him  in  my  heart 
henceforth,  instead  of  in  my  hypocritical  outside,  and  might  have  made  me  respect 
instead  of  hate  him.  I  thought  my  mother  was  sorry  to  see  me  standing  in  the  room 
so  scared  and  strange,  and  that,  presently,  when  I  stole  to  a  chair,  she  followed  me  with 
her  eyes  more  sorrowfully  still— missing,  perhaps,  some  freedom  in  my  childish  tread 
— but  the  word  was  not  spoken,  and  the  time  for  it  was  gone. 

We  dined  alone,  we  three  together.  He  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of  my  mother — 
I  am  afraid  I  liked  him  none  the  better  for  that — and  she  was  very  fond  of  him.  I 
gathered  from  what  they  said,  that  an  elder  sister  of  his  was  coming  to  stay  with 
them,  and  that  she  was  expected  that  evening.  I  am  not  certain  whether  I  found  out 
then  or  afterwards,  that,  without  being  actively  concerned  in  any  business,  he  had 
some  share  in,  or  some  annual  charge  upon  the  profits  of,  a  wine-merchant's  house  in 
London,  with  which  his  family  had  been  connected  from  his  great-grandfather's  time, 
and  in  which  his  sister  had  a  similar  interest ;  but  I  may  mention  it  in  this  place, 
whether  or  no. 

After  dinner,  when  we  were  sitting  by  the  fire,  and  I  was  meditating  an  escape  to 
Peggotty  without  having  the  hardihood  to  slip  away,  lest  it  should  offend  the  master 
of  the  house,  a  coach  drove  up  to  the  garden-gate,  and  he  went  out  to  receive  the 
visitor.  My  mother  followed  him.  I  was  timidly  following  her,  when  she  turned  round 
at  the  parlour-door,  in  the  dusk,  and  taking  me  in  her  embrace  as  she  had  been  used 
to  do,  whispered  me  to  love  my  new  father  and  be  obedient  to  him.  She  did  this 
hurriedly  and  secretly,  as  if  it  were  wrong,  but  tenderly  ;   and,  putting  out  her  hand 


r  FALL  INTO  DISGRACE  81 

behind  her,  held  mine  in  it,  until  we  came  near  to  where  he  was  standing  in  the  garden, 
where  she  let  mine  po,  and  drew  hers  through  his  arm. 

It  was  Miss  Murdstone  who  was  arrived,  and  a  gloomy-looking  lady  she  was, 
dark,  like  her  brother,  whom  she  greatly  resembled  in  face  and  voice  ;  and  with  very 
heavy  eyebrows,  nearly  meeting  over  her  large  nose,  as  if,  being  disabled  by  the  wrongs 
of  her  sex  from  wearing  whiskers,  she  had  carried  them  to  that  account.  She  brought 
with  her  two  uncompromising  hard  black  boxes,  with  her  initials  on  the  lids  in  hard 
brass  nails.  When  she  paid  the  coachman  she  took  her  money  out  of  a  hard  steel 
purse,  and  she  kept  the  purse  in  a  very  jail  of  a  bag  which  hung  upon  her  arm  by  a 
heavy  chain,  and  shut  up  like  a  bite.  I  had  never,  at  that  time,  seen  such  a  metallic 
lady  altogether  as  Miss  Murdstone  was. 

She  was  brought  into  the  parlour  with  many  tokens  of  welcome,  and  there  formally 
recognised  my  mother  as  a  new  and  near  relation.  Then  she  looked  at  me  and 
said — 

'  Is  that  your  boy,  sister-in-law  ?  ' 

My  mother  acknowledged  me. 

'  Generally  speaking,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  '  I  don't  like  boys.  How  d've  do, 
boy  ?  ' 

Under  these  encouraging  circumstances,  I  replied  that  I  was  very  well,  and  that 
I  hoped  she  was  the  same  ;  with  such  an  indifferent  grace,  that  Miss  Murdstone  disposed 
of  me  in  two  words — 

'  Wants  manner  !  ' 

Having  uttered  which  with  great  distinctness,  she  begged  the  favour  of  being 
shown  to  her  room,  which  became  to  me  from  that  time  forth  a  place  of  awe  and  dread, 
wherein  the  two  black  boxes  were  never  seen  open  or  known  to  be  left  unlocked,  and 
where  (for  I  peeped  in  once  or  twice  when  she  was  out)  numerous  little  steel  fetters 
and  rivets,  with  which  Miss  Murdstone  embellished  herself  when  she  was  dressed, 
generally  hung  upon  the  looking-glass  in  formidable  array. 

As  well  as  I  could  make  out,  she  had  come  for  good,  and  had  no  intention  of  ever 
going  again.  She  began  to  '  help  '  my  mother  next  morning,  and  was  in  and  out  of 
the  store-closet  all  day,  putting  things  to  rights,  and  making  havoc  in  all  the  old 
arrangements.  Almost  the  first  remarkable  thing  I  observed  in  Miss  Murdstone  was, 
her  being  constantly  haunted  by  a  suspicion  that  the  servants  had  a  man  secreted 
somewhere  on  the  premises.  Under  the  influence  of  this  delusion,  she  dived  into  the 
coal-cellar  at  the  most  untimely  hours,  and  scarcely  ever  opened  the  door  of  a  dark 
cupboard  without  clapping  it  to  again,  in  the  belief  that  she  had  got  him. 

Though  there  was  nothing  very  airy  about  Miss  Murdstone,  she  was  a  perfect 
Lark  in  point  of  getting  up.  She  was  up  (and,  as  I  believe  to  this  hour,  looking  for 
that  man)  before  anybody  in  the  house  was  stirring.  Peggotty  gave  it  as  her  opinion 
that  she  even  slept  with  one  eye  open  ;  but  I  could  not  concur  in  this  idea  ;  for  I  tried 
it  myself  after  hearing  the  suggestion  thrown  out,  and  found  it  couldn't  be  done. 

On  the  very  first  morning  after  her  arrival  she  was  up  and  ringing  her  bell  at  cock- 
crow. When  my  mother  came  down  to  breakfast  and  was  going  to  make  the  tea. 
Miss  Murdstone  gave  her  a  kind  of  peck  on  the  cheek,  which  was  her  nearest  approach 
to  a  kiss,  and  said— 

'  Now,  Clara,  my  dear,  I  am  come  here,  you  know,  to  relieve  you  of  all  the  trouble 
I  can.  You  're  much  too  pretty  and  thoughtless  ' — my  mother  blushed  but  laughed, 
and  seemed  not  to  dislike  this  character — '  to  have  any  duties  imposed  upon  you  that 


32  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

can  be  undertaken  by  me.  If  you  '11  be  so  good  as  give  me  your  keys,  my  dear,  I  '11 
attend  to  all  this  sort  of  thing  in  future.' 

From  that  time,  Miss  Murdstone  kept  the  keys  in  her  own  little  jail  all  day,  and 
under  her  pillow  all  night,  and  my  mother  had  no  more  to  do  with  them  than  I  had. 

My  mother  did  not  suffer  her  authority  to  pass  from  her  without  a  shadow  of 
protest.  One  night  when  Miss  Murdstone  had  been  developing  certain  household 
plans  to  her  brother,  of  which  he  signified  his  approbation,  my  mother  suddenly  began 
to  cry,  and  said  she  thought  she  might  have  been  consulted. 

'  Clara  !  '  said  Mr.  Murdstone  sternly.     '  Clara  !     I  wonder  at  you.' 

'  Oh,  it 's  very  well  to  say  you  wonder,  Edward  !  '  cried  my  mother,  '  and  it 's 
very  well  for  you  to  talk  about  firmness,  but  you  wouldn't  like  it  yourself.' 

Firmness,  I  may  observe,  was  the  grand  quality  on  which  both  Mr.  and  Miss 
Murdstone  took  their  stand.  However  I  might  have  expressed  my  comprehension 
of  it  at  that  time,  if  I  had  been  called  upon,  I  nevertheless  did  clearly  comprehend 
in  my  own  way,  that  it  was  another  name  for  tyranny  ;  and  for  a  certain  gloomy, 
arrogant,  devil's  humour,  that  was  in  them  both.  The  creed,  as  I  should  state  it  now, 
was  this.  Mr.  Murdstone  was  firm  ;  nobody  in  his  world  was  to  be  so  firm  as  Mr. 
Murdstone  ;  nobody  else  in  his  world  was  to  be  firm  at  all,  for  everybody  was  to  be 
bent  to  his  firmness.  Miss  Murdstone  was  an  exception.  She  might  be  firm,  but  only 
by  relationship,  and  in  an  inferior  and  tributary  degree.  My  mother  was  another 
exception.  She  might  be  firm,  and  must  be  ;  but  only  in  bearing  their  firmness,  and 
firmly  believing  there  was  no  other  firmness  upon  earth. 

'  It 's  very  hard,'  said  my  mother,  '  that  in  my  own  house ' 

'  My  own  house  ?  '  repeated  Mr.  Murdstone.     '  Clara  !  ' 

'  Our  own  house,  I  mean,'  faltered  my  mother,  evidently  frightened — '  I  hope 
you  must  know  what  I  mean,  Edward— it 's  very  hard  that  in  your  own  house  I  may 
not  have  a  word  to  say  about  domestic  matters.  I  am  sure  I  managed  very  well 
before  we  were  married.  There  's  evidence,'  said  my  mother  sobbing  ;  '  ask  Peggotty 
if  I  didn't  do  very  well  when  I  wasn't  interfered  with  !  ' 

'  Edward,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  '  let  there  be  an  end  of  this.     I  go  to-morrow.' 

'  Jane  Murdstone,'  said  her  brother,  '  be  silent  !  How  dare  you  to  insinuate 
that  you  don't  know  my  character  better  than  your  words  imply  ?  ' 

'  I  am  sure,'  my  poor  mother  went  on  at  a  grievous  disadvantage,  and  with  many 
tears,  '  I  don't  want  anybody  to  go.  I  should  be  very  miserable  and  unhappy  if 
anybody  was  to  go.  I  don't  ask  much.  I  am  not  unreasonable.  I  only  want  to  be 
consulted  sometimes.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  anybody  who  assists  me,  and  I 
only  want  to  be  consulted  as  a  mere  form,  sometimes.  I  thought  you  were  pleased, 
once,  with  my  being  a  little  inexperienced  and  girlish,  Edward — I  am  sure  you  said 
so — but  you  seem  to  hate  me  for  it  now,  you  are  so  severe.' 

'  Edward,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  again,  '  let  there  be  an  end  of  this.  I  go  to- 
morrow.' 

'  Jane  Murdstone,'  thundered  Mr.  Murdstone.  '  Will  you  be  silent  ?  How  dare 
you?' 

Miss  Murdstone  made  a  jail-delivery  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  held  it 
before  her  eyes. 

'  Clara,'  he  continued,  looking  at  my  mother,  '  you  surprise  me  !  You  astound 
me  !  Yes,  I  had  a  satisfaction  in  the  thought  of  marrying  an  inexperienced  and  artless 
person,  and  forming  her  character,  and  infusing  into  it  some  amount  of  that  firmness 


Ml!.   MURDSTONE 

•  His  ic.:,'iilar  eyebrows,  and  the  rich  white,  and  black,  and  brown,  of  his 
complexion— confound  his  complexion,  and  his  memory!  -made  mc  think  him. 
in  spite  of  my  misgivings,  a  very  handsome  man.'  {Page  15) 


I  FALL  INTO  DISGRACE  88 

and  decision  of  which  it  stood  in  need.  But  when  Jane  Murdstone  is  kind  enough  to 
come  to  my  assistance  in  this  endeavour,  and  to  assume,  for  my  sake,  a  condition 
something  like  a  housekeeper's,  and  when  she  meets  with  a  Vmse  return ' 

'  Oh,  pray,  pray,  Edward,'  cried  my  mother,  '  don't  accuse  me  of  being  ungrateful. 
I  am  sure  I  am  not  ungrateful.  No  one  ever  said  I  was  before.  I  have  many  faults, 
but  not  that.     Oh,  don't,  my  dear  !  ' 

'  When  Jane  Murdstone  meets,  I  say,'  he  went  on,  after  waiting  until  my  mother 
was  silent,  '  with  a  base  return,  that  feeling  of  mine  is  chilled  and  altered.' 

'  Don't,  my  love,  say  that  !  '  implored  my  mother  very  piteously.  '  Oh,  don't, 
Edward  !  I  can't  bear  to  hear  it.  Whatever  I  am,  I  am  affectionate.  I  know  I  am 
affectionate.  I  wouldn't  say  it,  if  I  wasn't  certain  that  I  am.  Ask  Peggotty.  I  am 
sure  she  '11  tell  you  I  'm  affectionate.' 

'  There  is  no  extent  of  mere  weakness,  Clara,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone  in  reply,  '  that 
can  have  the  least  weight  with  me.     You  lose  breath.' 

'  Pray  let  us  be  friends,'  said  my  mother,  '  I  couldn't  live  under  coldness  or 
unkindness.  I  am  so  sorry.  I  have  a  great  many  defects,  I  know,  and  it 's  very  good 
of  you,  Edward,  with  your  strength  of  mind,  to  endeavour  to  correct  them  for  me. 
Jane,  I  don't  object  to  anything.  I  should  be  quite  broken-hearted  if  you  thought 
of  leaving '     My  mother  was  too  much  overcome  to  go  on. 

'  Jane  Murdstone,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone  to  his  sister,  '  any  harsh  words  between  us 
are,  I  hope,  uncommon.  It  is  not  my  fault  that  so  unusual  an  occurrence  has  taken 
place  to-night.  I  was  betrayed  into  it  by  another.  Nor  is  it  your  fault.  You  were 
betrayed  into  it  by  another.  Let  us  both  try  to  forget  it.  And  as  this,'  he  added, 
after  these  magnanimous  words,  '  is  not  a  fit  scene  for  the  boy — David,  go  to  bed  !  ' 

I  could  hardly  find  the  door,  through  the  tears  that  stood  in  my  eyes.  I  was 
so  sorry  for  my  mother's  distress  ;  but  I  groped  my  way  out,  and  groped  my  way  up 
to  my  room  in  the  dark,  without  even  having  the  heart  to  say  good  night  to  Peggotty, 
or  to  get  a  candle  from  her.  When  her  coming  up  to  look  for  me,  an  hour  or  so 
afterwards,  awoke  me,  she  said  that  my  mother  had  gone  to  bed  poorly,  and  that 
Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  were  sitting  alone. 

Going  down  next  morning  rather  earlier  than  usual,  I  paused  outside  the  parlour- 
door,  on  hearing  my  mother's  voice.  She  was  very  earnestly  and  humbly  entreating 
Miss  Murdstone's  pardon,  which  that  lady  granted,  and  a  perfect  reconciliation  took 
place.  I  never  knew  my  mother  aftervvards  to  give  an  opinion  on  any  matter,  without 
first  appealing  to  Miss  Murdstone,  or  without  having  first  ascertained  by  some  sure 
means,  what  Miss  Murdstone's  opinion  was  ;  and  I  never  saw  Miss  Murdstone,  when  out 
of  temper  (she  was  infirm  that  way),  move  her  hand  towards  her  bag  as  if  she  were 
going  to  take  out  the  keys  and  offer  to  resign  them  to  my  mother,  without  seeing  that 
my  mother  was  in  a  terrible  fright. 

The  gloomy  taint  that  was  in  the  Murdstone  blood,  darkened  the  Murdstone 
religion,  which  was  austere  and  wrathful.  I  have  thought,  since,  that  its  assuming  that 
character  was  a  necessary  consequence  of  Mr.  Murdstone's  firmness,  which  wouldn't 
allow  him  to  let  anybody  off  from  the  utmost  weight  of  the  severest  penalties  he  could 
find  any  excuse  for.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I  well  remember  the  tremendous  visages  with 
which  we  used  to  go  to  church,  and  the  changed  air  of  the  place.  Again  the  dreaded 
Sunday  comes  round,  and  I  file  into  the  old  pew  first,  like  a  guarded  captive  brought 
to  a  condemned  service.  Again,  Miss  Murdstone,  in  a  black  velvet  gown,  that  looks 
as  if  it  had  been  made  out  of  a  pall,  follows  close  upon  me  ;  then  my  mother  ;  then  her 

B 


34  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

husband.  There  is  no  Peggotty  now,  as  in  the  old  time.  Again,  I  hsten  to  Miss 
Murdstone  mumbling  the  responses,  and  emphasising  all  the  dread  words  with  a  cruel 
relish.  Again,  I  see  her  dark  eyes  roll  round  the  church  when  she  says  '  miserable 
sinners,'  as  if  she  were  calling  all  the  congregation  names.  Again,  I  catch  rare  glimpses 
of  my  mother,  moving  her  lips  timidly  between  the  two,  with  one  of  them  muttering  at 
each  ear  like  low  thunder.  Again,  I  wonder  with  a  sudden  fear  whether  it  is  likely  that 
our  good  old  clergyman  can  be  wrong,  and  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  right,  and  that  all  the 
angels  in  heaven  can  be  destroying  angels.  Again,  if  I  move  a  finger  or  relax  a  muscle 
of  my  face.  Miss  Murdstone  pokes  me  with  her  prayer-book,  and  makes  my  side  ache. 

Yes,  and  again,  as  we  walk  home,  I  note  some  neighbours  looking  at  my  mother 
and  at  me,  and  whispering.  Again,  as  the  three  go  on  arm-in-arm,  and  I  linger  behind 
alone,  I  follow  some  of  those  looks,  and  wonder  if  my  mother's  step  be  really  not  so 
light  as  I  have  seen  it,  and  if  the  gaiety  of  her  beauty  be  really  almost  worried  away. 
Again,  I  wonder  whether  any  of  the  neighbours  call  to  mind,  as  I  do,  how  we  used  to 
walk  home  together,  she  and  I ;  and  I  wonder  stupidly  about  that,  all  the  dreary, 
dismal  day. 

There  had  been  some  talk  on  occasions  of  my  going  to  boarding-school.  Mr.  and 
Miss  Murdstone  had  originated  it,  and  my  mother  had  of  course  agreed  with  them. 
Nothing,  however,  was  concluded  on  the  subject  yet.  In  the  meantime  I  learnt 
lessons  at  home. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  those  lessons  !  They  were  presided  over  nominally  by  my 
mother,  but  really  by  Mr.  Murdstone  and  his  sister,  who  were  always  present,  and 
found  them  a  favourable  occasion  for  giving  my  mother  lessons  in  that  miscalled 
firmness,  which  was  the  bane  of  both  our  lives.  I  believe  I  was  kept  at  home  for  that 
purpose.  I  had  been  apt  enough  to  learn,  and  willing  enough,  when  my  mother 
and  I  had  lived  alone  together.  I  can  faintly  remember  learning  the  alphabet  at  her 
knee.  To  this  day,  when  I  look  upon  the  fat  black  letters  in  the  primer,  the  puzzling 
novelty  of  their  shapes,  and  the  easy  good-nature  of  O  and  Q  and  S,  seem  to  present 
themselves  again  before  me  as  they  used  to  do.  But  they  recall  no  feeling  of  disgust 
or  reluctance.  On  the  contrary,  I  seemed  to  have  walked  along  a  path  of  flowers  as 
far  as  the  crocodile-book,  and  to  have  been  cheered  by  the  gentleness  of  my  mother's 
voice  and  manner  all  the  way.  But  these  solemn  lessons  which  succeeded  those,  I 
remember  as  the  death-blow  at  my  peace,  and  a  grievous  daily  drudgery  and  misery. 
They  were  very  long,  very  numerous,  very  hard— perfectly  unintelligible,  some  of  them, 
to  me — and  I  was  generally  as  much  bewildered  by  them  as  I  believe  my  poor  mother 
was  herself. 

Let  me  remember  how  it  used  to  be,  and  bring  one  morning  back  again. 

I  come  into  the  second-best  parlour  after  breakfast,  with  my  books,  and  an 
exercise-book,  and  a  slate.  My  mother  is  ready  for  me  at  her  writing-desk,  but  not  half 
so  ready  as  Mr.  Murdstone  in  his  easy-chair  by  the  window  (though  he  pretends  to  be 
reading  a  book),  or  as  Miss  Murdstone,  sitting  near  my  mother  stringing  steel  beads. 
The  very  sight  of  these  two  has  such  an  influence  over  me,  that  I  begin  to  feel  the 
words  I  have  been  at  infinite  pains  to  get  into  my  head,  all  sliding  away,  and  going 
I  don't  know  where.     I  wonder  where  they  do  go,  by  the  bye  ? 

I  hand  the  first  book  to  mother.  Perhaps  it  is  a  grammar,  perhaps  a  history  or 
geography.  I  take  a  last  drowning  look  at  the  page  as  I  give  it  into  her  hand,  and 
start  off  aloud  at  a  racing  pace  while  I  have  got  it  fresh.  I  trip  over  a  word.  Mr. 
Murdstone  looks  up.     I  trip  over  another  word.     Miss  Murdstone  looks  up.     I  redden. 


1  lALL  INTO  DISUKACE  3.5 

tumble  over  half  a  dozen  words,  and  stop.     I  think  my  mother  would  show  me  the 
book  if  she  dared,  but  she  does  not  dare,  and  she  says  softly — 

'  Oh,  Davy,  Davy  !  ' 

'  Now,  Clara,'  says  Mr.  Murdstone,  '  be  firm  with  the  boy.  Don't  say,  "  Oh,  Davy, 
Davy  !  "     That  's  childish.     He  knows  his  lesson,  or  he  does  not  know  it.' 

'  He  does  not  know  it,'  Miss  Murdstone  interposes  awfully. 

'  I  am  really  afraid  he  does  not,'  says  my  mother. 

'  Then,  you  see,  Clara,'  returns  Miss  Murdstone, '  you  should  just  give  him  the  book 
back,  and  make  him  know  it.' 

'  Yes,  certainly,'  says  my  mother  ;  '  that  is  what  I  intend  to  do,  my  dear  Jane. 
Now,  Davy,  try  once  more,  and  don't  be  stupid.' 

I  obey  the  first  clause  of  the  injunction  by  trying  once  more,  but  am  not  so 
successful  with  the  second,  for  I  am  very  stupid.  I  tumble  down  before  I  get  to  the 
old  place,  at  a  point  where  I  was  all  right  before,  and  stop  to  think.  But  I  can't  think 
about  the  lesson.  I  think  of  the  number  of  yards  of  net  in  Miss  Murdstone's  cap,  or  of 
the  price  of  Mr.  Murdstone's  dressing-gown,  or  any  such  ridiculous  problem  that  I  have 
no  business  with,  and  don't  want  to  have  anything  at  all  to  do  with.  Mr.  Murdstone 
makes  a  movement  of  impatience  which  I  have  been  exfjccting  for  a  long  time.  Miss 
Murdstone  does  the  same.  My  mother  glances  submissively  at  them,  shuts  the  book, 
and  lays  it  by  as  an  arrear  to  be  worked  out  when  my  other  tasks  are  done. 

There  is  a  pile  of  these  arrears  very  soon,  and  it  swells  like  a  rolling  snowball. 
The  bigger  it  gets,  the  more  stupid  /  get.  The  case  is  so  hopeless,  and  I  feel  that  I 
am  wallowing  in  such  a  bog  of  nonsense,  that  I  give  up  all  idea  of  getting  out,  and 
abandon  myself  to  my  fate.  The  despairing  way  in  which  my  mother  and  I  look  at 
each  other,  as  I  blunder  on,  is  truly  melancholy.  But  the  greatest  effect  in  these 
miserable  lessons  is  when  my  mother  (thinking  nobody  is  observing  her)  tries  to  give 
me  the  cue  by  the  motion  of  her  lips.  At  that  instant.  Miss  Murdstone,  who  has  been 
lying  in  wait  for  nothing  else  all  along,  says  in  a  deep  warning  voice — 

'  Clara  !  ' 

My  mother  starts,  colours,  and  smiles  faintly.  Mr.  Murdstone  comes  out  of  his 
chair,  takes  the  book,  throws  it  at  me  or  boxes  my  ears  with  it,  and  turns  me  out  of 
the  room  by  the  shoulders. 

Even  when  the  lessons  are  done,  the  worst  is  yet  to  happen,  in  the  shape  of  an 
appalling  sum.  This  is  invented  for  me,  and  delivered  to  me  orally  by  Mr.  Murdstone, 
and  begins,  '  If  I  go  into  a  cheesemonger's  shop,  and  buy  five  thousand  double- 
Gloucester  cheeses  at  fourpence-halfpenny  each,  present  payment ' — at  which  I  see 
Miss  Murdstone  secretly  overjoyed.  I  pore  over  these  cheeses  without  any  result  or 
enlightenment  until  dinner-time,  when,  having  made  a  mulatto  of  myself  by  getting 
the  dirt  of  the  slate  into  the  pores  of  my  skin,  I  have  a  slice  of  bread  to  help  me  out  with 
the  cheeses,  and  am  considered  in  disgrace  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

It  seems  to  me,  at  this  distance  of  time,  as  if  my  unfortunate  studies  generally 
took  this  course.  I  could  have  done  very  well  if  I  had  been  without  the  Murdstones  ; 
but  the  influence  of  the  Murdstones  upon  me  was  like  the  fascination  of  two  snakes  on 
a  wretched  young  bird.  Even  when  I  did  get  through  the  morning  with  tolerable 
credit,  there  was  not  much  gained  but  dinner  ;  for  Miss  Murdstone  never  could  endure 
to  see  me  untasked,  and  if  I  rashly  made  any  show  of  being  unemployed,  called  her 
brother's  attention  to  me  by  saying,  '  Clara,  my  dear,  there  's  nothing  like  work — 
give  your  boy  an  exercise  '  ;   which  caused  me  to  be  clapped  down  to  some  new  labour 


36  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

there  and  then.  As  to  any  recreation  with  other  children  of  my  age,  I  had  very  Httle 
of  that ;  for  the  gloomy  theology  of  the  Murdstones  made  all  children  out  to  be  a 
swarm  of  little  vipers  (though  there  was  a  child  once  set  in  the  midst  of  the  Disciples), 
and  held  that  they  contaminated  one  another. 

The  natural  result  of  this  treatment,  continued,  I  suppose,  for  some  six  months  or 
more,  was  to  make  me  sullen,  dull,  and  dogged.  I  was  not  made  the  less  so,  by  my  sense 
of  being  daily  more  and  more  shut  out  and  alienated  from  my  mother.  I  believe  I 
should  have  been  almost  stupefied  but  for  one  circumstance. 

It  was  this.  My  father  had  left  a  small  collection  of  books  in  a  little  room 
upstairs,  to  which  I  had  access  (for  it  adjoined  my  own)  and  which  nobody  else  in  our 
house  ever  troubled.  From  that  blessed  little  room,  Roderick  Random,  Peregrine 
Pickle,  Humphrey  Clinker,  Tom  Jones,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Don  Quixote,  Gil  Bias, 
and  Robinson  Crusoe,  came  out,  a  glorious  host,  to  keep  me  company.  They  kept 
alive  my  fancy,  and  my  hope  of  something  beyond  that  place  and  time, — they,  and  the 
Arabian  Nights,  and  the  Tales  of  the  Genii, — and  did  me  no  harm  ;  for  whatever 
harm  was  in  some  of  them  was  not  there  for  me  ;  /  knew  nothing  of  it.  It  is  astonish- 
ing to  me  now,  how  I  found  time,  in  the  midst  of  my  porings  and  blunderings  over 
heavier  themes,  to  read  those  books  as  I  did.  It  is  curious  to  me  how  I  could  ever 
have  consoled  myself  under  my  small  troubles  (which  were  great  troubles  to  me),  by 
impersonating  my  favourite  characters  in  them — as  I  did — and  by  putting  Mr.  and  Miss 
Murdstone  into  all  the  bad  ones — which  I  did  too.  I  have  been  Tom  Jones  (a  child's 
Tom  Jones,  a  harmless  creature)  for  a  week  together.  I  have  sustained  my  own  idea  of 
Roderick  Random  for  a  month  at  a  stretch,  I  verily  believe.  I  had  a  greedy  relish 
for  a  few  volumes  of  Voyages  and  Travels — I  forget  what,  now — that  were  on  those 
shelves  ;  and  for  days  and  days  I  can  remember  to  have  gone  about  my  region  of  our 
house,  armed  with  the  centre-piece  out  of  an  old  set  of  boot-trees — the  perfect  realisation 
of  Captain  Somebody,  of  the  Royal  British  Navy,  in  danger  of  being  beset  by  savages, 
and  resolved  to  sell  his  life  at  a  great  price.  The  captain  never  lost  dignity,  from 
having  his  ears  boxed  with  the  Latin  Grammar.  I  did  ;  but  the  captain  was  a  captain 
and  a  hero,  in  despite  of  all  the  grammars  of  all  the  languages  in  the  world,  dead 
or  alive. 

This  was  my  only  and  my  constant  comfort.  When  I  think  of  it,  the  picture 
always  rises  in  my  mind,  of  a  summer  evening,  the  boys  at  play  in  the  churchyard, 
and  I  sitting  on  my  bed,  reading  as  if  for  life.  Every  bam  in  the  neighbourhood, 
every  stone  in  the  church,  and  every  foot  of  the  churchyard,  had  some  association 
of  its  own,  in  my  mind,  connected  with  these  books,  and  stood  for  some  locality  made 
famous  in  them.  I  have  seen  Tom  Pipes  go  climbing  up  the  church-steeple  ;  I  have 
watched  Strap,  with  the  knapsack  on  his  back,  stopping  to  rest  himself  upon  the 
wicket-gate  ;  and  I  know  that  Commodore  Trunnion  held  that  club  with  Mr.  Pickle, 
in  the  parlour  of  our  little  village  ale-house. 

The  reader  now  understands,  as  well  as  I  do,  what  I  was  when  I  came  to  that  point 
of  my  youthful  history  to  which  I  am  now  coming  again. 

One  morning  when  I  went  into  the  parlour  with  my  books,  I  found  my  mother 
looking  anxious.  Miss  Murdstone  looking  firm,  and  Mr.  Murdstone  binding  something 
round  the  bottom  of  a  cane — a  lithe  and  limber  cane,  which  he  left  off  binding  when  I 
came  in,  and  poised  and  switched  in  the  air. 

'  I  tell  you,  Clara,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  '  I  have  been  often  flogged  myself.' 

'  To  be  sure  ;   of  course,'  said  Miss  Murdstone. 


I  FALL  INTO  DLSGRACE  87 

'  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane,'  faltered  my  mother,  meekly.  '  But — but  do  you  think 
it  did  Edward  good  ?  ' 

'  Do  you  think  it  did  Edward  harm,  Clara  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Murdstone,  gravely. 

'  That 's  the  point,'  said  his  sister. 

To  this  my  mother  returned,  '  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane,'  and  said  no  more. 

I  felt  apprehensive  that  I  was  personally  interested  in  this  dialogue,  and  sought 
Mr.  Murdstone's  eye  as  it  lighted  on  mine. 

'  Now,  David,'  he  said — and  I  saw  that  cast  again  as  he  said  it — '  you  must  be  far 
more  careful  to-day  than  usual.'  He  gave  the  cane  another  poise,  and  another  switch  ; 
and  having  finished  his  preparation  of  it,  laid  it  down  beside  him,  with  an  impressive 
look,  and  took  up  his  book. 

This  was  a  good  freshener  to  my  presence  of  mind,  as  a  beginning.  I  felt  the 
words  of  my  lessons  slipping  off,  not  one  by  one,  or  line  by  line,  but  by  the  entire  page  ; 
I  tried  to  lay  hold  of  them  ;  but  they  seemed,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  to  have  put  skates 
on,  and  to  skim  away  from  me  with  a  smoothness  there  was  no  checking. 

We  began  badly,  and  went  on  worse.  I  had  come  in,  with  an  idea  of  distinguishing 
myself  rather,  conceiving  that  I  was  very  well  prepared  ;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  quite 
a  mistake.  Book  after  book  was  added  to  the  heap  of  failures.  Miss  Murdstone  being 
firmly  watchful  of  us  all  the  time.  And  when  we  came  at  last  to  the  five  thousand 
cheeses  (canes  he  made  it  that  day,  I  remember),  my  mother  burst  out  crying. 

'  Clara  !  '  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  her  warning  voice. 

'  I  am  not  quite  well,  my  dear  Jane,  I  think,'  said  my  mother. 

I  saw  him  wink,  solemnly,  at  his  sister,  as  he  rose  and  said,  taking  up  the 
cane — 

'  Why,  Jane,  we  can  hardly  expect  Clara  to  bear,  with  perfect  firmness,  the  worry 
and  torment  that  David  has  occasioned  her  to-day.  That  would  be  stoical.  Clara  is 
getting  strengthened  and  improved,  but  we  can  hardly  expect  so  much  from  her. 
David,  you  and  I  will  go  upstairs,  boy.' 

As  he  took  me  out  at  the  door,  my  mother  ran  towards  us.  Miss  Murdstone  said, 
'  Clara  !  are  you  a  perfect  fool  ?  '  and  interfered.  I  saw  my  mother  stop  her  ears  then, 
and  I  heard  her  crying. 

He  walked  me  up  to  my  room  slowly  and  gravely — I  am  certain  he  had  a  delight 
in  that  formal  parade  of  executing  justice — and  when  we  got  there,  suddenly  twisted 
my  head  under  his  arm. 

'  Mr.  Murdstone  !  Sir  !  '  I  cried  to  him.  '  Don't  !  Pray  don't  beat  me  !  I 
have  tried  to  learn,  sir,  but  I  can't  learn  while  you  and  Miss  Murdstone  are  by.  I 
can't  indeed  !  ' 

'  Can't  you,  indeed,  David  ?  '  he  said.     '  We  '11  try  that.' 

He  had  my  head  as  in  a  vice,  but  I  twined  round  him  somehow,  and  stopped  him 
for  a  moment,  entreating  him  not  to  beat  me.  It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  I  stopped 
him,  for  he  cut  me  heavily  an  instant  afterwards,  and  in  the  same  instant  I  caught  the 
hand  with  which  he  held  me  in  my  mouth,  between  my  teeth,  and  bit  it  through.  It 
sets  my  teeth  on  edge  to  think  of  it. 

He  beat  me  then,  as  if  he  would  have  beaten  me  to  death.  Above  all  the  noise 
we  made,  I  heard  them  running  up  the  stairs,  and  crying  out — I  heard  my  mother 
crying  out — and  Peggotty.  Then  he  was  gone  ;  and  the  door  was  locked  outside  ; 
and  I  was  lying,  fevered  and  hot,  and  torn,  and  sore,  and  raging  in  my  puny  way, 
upon  the  floor. 

50  f  ''  '■y 


38  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

How  well  I  recollect,  when  I  became  quiet,  what  an  unnatural  stillness  seemed  to 
reign  through  the  whole  house  !  How  well  I  remember,  when  my  smart  and  passion 
began  to  cool,  how  wicked  I  began  to  feel ! 

I  sat  listening  for  a  long  while,  but  there  was  not  a  sound.  I  crawled  up  from  the 
floor,  and  saw  my  face  in  the  glass,  so  swollen,  red,  and  ugly  that  it  almost  frightened 
me.  My  stripes  were  sore  and  stiff,  and  made  me  cry  afresh,  when  I  moved  ;  but  they 
were  nothing  to  the  guilt  I  felt.  It  lay  heavier  on  my  breast  than  if  I  had  been  a  most 
atrocious  criminal,  I  dare  say. 

It  had  begun  to  grow  dark,  and  I  had  shut  the  window  (I  had  been  lying,  for  the 
most  part,  with  my  head  upon  the  sill,  by  turns  crying,  dozing,  and  looking  listlessly 
out),  when  the  key  was  turned,  and  Miss  Murdstone  came  in  with  some  bread  and  meat, 
and  milk.  These  she  put  down  upon  the  table  without  a  word,  glaring  at  me  the  while 
with  exemplary  firmness,  and  then  retired,  locking  the  door  after  her. 

Long  after  it  was  dark,  I  sat  there  wondering  whether  anybody  else  would  come. 
When  this  appeared  improbable  for  that  night,  I  undressed,  and  went  to  bed  ;  and 
there,  I  began  to  wonder  fearfully  what  would  be  done  to  me.  Whether  it  was  a 
criminal  act  that  I  had  committed  ?  Whether  I  should  be  taken  into  custody,  and  sent 
to  prison  ?     Whether  I  was  at  all  in  danger  of  being  hanged  ? 

I  never  shall  forget  the  waking  next  morning  ;  the  being  cheerful  and  fresh  for 
the  first  moment,  and  then  the  being  weighed  down  by  the  stale  and  dismal  oppression 
of  remembrance.  Miss  Murdstone  reappeared  before  I  was  out  of  bed  ;  told  me,  in  so 
many  words,  that  I  was  free  to  walk  in  the  garden  for  half  an  hour  and  no  longer  ;  and 
retired,  leaving  the  door  open,  that  I  might  avail  myself  of  that  permission. 

I  did  so,  and  did  so  every  morning  of  my  imprisonment,  which  lasted  five  days. 
If  I  could  have  seen  my  mother  alone,  I  should  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  to  her  and 
besought  her  forgiveness  ;  but  I  saw  no  one.  Miss  Murdstone  excepted,  during  the 
whole  time — except  at  evening  prayers  in  the  parlour ;  to  which  I  was  escorted  by 
Miss  Murdstone  after  everybody  else  was  placed ;  where  I  was  stationed,  a  young 
outlaw,  all  alone  by  myself  near  the  door ;  and  whence  I  was  solemnly  conducted 
by  my  jailer,  before  any  one  arose  from  the  devotional  posture.  I  only  observed  that 
my  mother  was  as  far  off  from  me  as  she  could  be,  and  kept  her  face  another  way, 
so  that  I  never  saw  it ;  and  that  Mr.  Murdstone' s  hand  was  bound  up  in  a  large 
linen  wrapper. 

The  length  of  those  five  days  I  can  convey  no  idea  of  to  any  one.  They  occupy 
the  place  of  years  in  my  remembrance.  The  way  in  which  I  listened  to  all  the  incidents 
of  the  house  that  made  themselves  audible  to  me  ;  the  ringing  of  bells,  the  opening 
and  shutting  of  doors,  the  murmuring  of  voices,  the  footsteps  on  the  stairs  ;  to  any 
laughing,  whistling,  or  singing,  outside,  which  seemed  more  dismal  than  anything  else 
to  me  in  my  solitude  and  disgrace — the  uncertain  pace  of  the  hours,  especially  at  night, 
when  I  would  wake  thinking  it  was  morning,  and  find  that  the  family  were  not  yet  gone 
to  bed,  and  that  all  the  length  of  night  had  yet  to  come — the  depressed  dreams  and 
nightmares  I  had — the  return  of  day,  noon,  afternoon,  evening,  when  the  boys  played 
in  the  churchyard,  and  I  watched  them  from  a  distance  within  the  room,  being  ashamed 
to  show  myself  at  the  window  lest  they  should  know  I  was  a  prisoner — the  strange 
sensation  of  never  hearing  myself  speak — the  fleeting  intervals  of  something  like 
cheerfulness,  which  came  with  eating  and  drinking,  and  went  away  with  it — the  setting 
in  of  rain  one  evening,  with  a  fresh  smell,  and  its  coming  down  faster  and  faster  between 
me  and  the  church,  until  it  and  gathering  night  seemed  to  quench  me  in  gloom,  and  fear, 


I    FALL  INTO   DfSGRACE  39 

and  remorse — all  this  a])i)cars  to  have  gone  roiind  and  ronnd  for  years  instead  of  days, 
it  is  vividly  and  strongly  stamped  on  my  remeiiibrancc. 

On  the  last  night  of  my  restraint,  I  was  awakened  by  hearing  my  own  name 
spoken  in  a  whisper.     I  started  nj)  in  bed,  and  putting  out  my  arms  in  the  dark,  said — 

'  Is  that  you,  Pcggotty  V  ' 

There  was  no  immediate  answer,  hut  presently  I  heard  my  name  again,  in  a  tone 
so  very  mysterious  and  awful,  that  I  think  I  should  have  gone  into  a  fit,  if  it  had 
not  occurred  to  me  that  it  must  have  come  through  the  keyhole. 

I  groped  my  way  to  the  door,  and  putting  my  own  lips  to  the  keyhole,  whispered — 

'  Is  that  you,  Peggotty,  dear  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  my  own  precious  Davy,'  she  replied.  '  Be  as  soft  as  a  mouse,  or  the  Cat  '11 
hear  us.' 

I  understood  this  to  mean  Miss  Murdstone,  and  was  sensible  of  the  urgency  of 
the  case  ;   her  room  being  close  by. 

'  How  's  mamma,  dear  Peggotty  ?     Is  she  very  angry  with  me  ?  ' 

I  could  hear  Peggotty  crying  softly  on  her  side  of  the  keyhole,  as  I  was  doing  on 
mine,  before  she  answered.     '  No.     Not  very.' 

'  What  is  going  to  be  done  with  me,  Peggotty  dear  ?     Do  you  know  ?  ' 

'  School.  Near  London,'  was  Peggotty's  answer.  I  was  obliged  to  get  her  to 
repeat  it,  for  she  spoke  it  the  first  time  quite  down  my  throat,  in  consequence  of  my 
having  forgotten  to  take  my  mouth  away  from  the  keyhole  and  put  my  ear  there  :  and 
though  her  words  tickled  me  a  good  deal,  I  didn't  hear  them. 

'  When,  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  To-morrow.' 

'  Is  that  the  reason  why  Miss  Murdstone  took  the  clothes  out  of  my  drawers  ?  ' 
which  she  had  done,  though  I  have  forgotten  to  mention  it. 

'  Yes,'  said  Peggotty.     '  Box.' 

'  Shan't  1  see  mamma  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Peggotty.     '  Morning.' 

Then  Peggotty  fitted  her  mouth  close  to  the  keyhole,  and  delivered  these  words 
through  it  with  as  much  feeling  and  earnestness  as  a  keyhole  has  ever  been  the  medium 
of  commimicating,  I  will  venture  to  assert :  shooting  in  each  broken  little  sentence 
in  a  convulsive  little  burst  of  its  own. 

'  Davy,  dear.  If  I  an't  been  azackly  as  intimate  with  you.  Lately,  as  I  used  to 
be.  It  an't  because  I  don't  love  you.  Just  as  well  and  more,  my  pretty  poppet. 
It 's  because  I  thought  it  better  for  you.  And  for  some  one  else  besides.  Davy,  my 
darling,  are  you  listening  ?     Can  you  hear  ?  ' 

'  Ye — ye — ye — yes,  Peggotty  !  '  I  sobbed. 

'  My  own  1  '  said  Peggotty,  with  infinite  compassion.  '  What  I  want  to  say,  is. 
That  you  must  never  forget  me.  For  I  '11  never  forget  you.  And  1  '11  take  as  much 
care  of  your  mamma,  Davy.  As  ever  I  took  of  you.  And  I  won't  leave  her.  The 
day  may  come  when  she  '11  be  glad  to  lay  her  poor  head.  On  her  stupid,  cross,  old 
Peggotty's  arm    again.      And   I  '11   write    to    you,   my   dear.      Though    I    ain't    no 

scholar.     And  I  '11 — I  '11 '     Peggotty  fell  to  kissing  the  keyhole,  as  she  couldn't 

kiss  me. 

'  Thank  you,  dear  Peggotty  !  '  said  I.  '  Oh,  thank  you  !  Thank  you  !  Will  you 
promise  me  one  thing,  Peggotty  ?  W^ill  you  write  and  tell  Mr.  Peggotty  and  little 
Em'ly,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Ham,  that  I  am  not  so  bad  as  they  might  suppose. 


40  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

and  that  I  sent  'em  all  my  love — especially  to  little  Em'ly  ?     Will  you,  if  you  please, 
Peggotty  ?  ' 

The  kind  soul  promised,  and  we  both  of  us  kissed  the  keyhole  with  the  greatest 
affection — I  patted  it  with  my  hand,  I  recollect,  as  if  it  had  been  her  honest  face — 
and  parted.  From  that  night  there  grew  up  in  my  breast  a  feeling  for  Peggotty 
which  I  cannot  very  well  define.  She  did  not  replace  my  mother ;  no  one  could  do 
that ;  but  she  came  into  a  vacancy  in  my  heart,  which  closed  upon  her,  and  I  felt 
towards  her  something  I  have  never  felt  for  any  other  human  being.  It  was  a  sort  of 
comical  affection,  too ;  and  yet  if  she  had  died,  I  cannot  think  what  I  should  have 
done,  or  how  I  should  have  acted  out  the  tragedy  it  would  have  been  to  me. 

In  the  morning  Miss  Murdstone  appeared  as  usual,  and  told  me  I  was  going  to 
school ;  which  was  not  altogether  such  news  to  me  as  she  supposed.  She  also  informed 
me  that  when  I  was  dressed,  I  was  to  come  downstairs  into  the  parlour,  and  have  my 
breakfast.  There  I  found  my  mother,  very  pale  and  with  red  eyes  :  into  whose  arms 
I  ran,  and  begged  her  pardon  from  my  suffering  soul. 

'  Oh,  Davy  !  '  she  said.  '  That  you  could  hurt  any  one  I  love  !  Try  to  be  better, 
pray  to  be  better  !  I  forgive  you  ;  but  I  am  so  grieved,  Davy,  that  you  should  have 
such  bad  passions  in  your  heart.' 

They  had  persuaded  her  that  I  was  a  wicked  fellow,  and  she  was  more  sorry 
for  that,  than  for  my  going  away.  I  felt  it  sorely.  I  tried  to  eat  my  parting  break- 
fast, but  my  tears  dropped  upon  my  bread-and-butter,  and  trickled  into  my  tea. 
I  saw  my  mother  look  at  me  sometimes,  and  then  glance  at  the  watchful  Miss 
Murdstone,  and  then  look  down  or  look  away. 

'  Master  Copperfield's  box  there  !  '  said  Miss  Murdstone,  when  wheels  were  heard 
at  the  gate. 

I  looked  for  Peggotty,  but  it  was  not  she  ;  neither  she  nor  Mr.  Murdstone  appeared. 
My  former  acquaintance,  the  carrier,  was  at  the  door  ;  the  box  was  taken  out  to  his 
cart,  and  lifted  in. 

'  Clara  !  '  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  her  warning  note. 

'  Ready,  my  dear  Jane,'  returned  my  mother.  '  Good  bye,  Davy.  You  are 
going  for  your  own  good.  Good  bye,  my  child.  You  will  come  home  in  the  hoUdays, 
and  be  a  better  boy.' 

'  Clara  !  '  Miss  Murdstone  repeated. 

'  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane,'  replied  my  mother,  who  was  holding  me.  '  I  forgive 
you,  my  dear  boy.     God  bless  you  !  ' 

'  Clara  !  '  Miss  Murdstone  repeated. 

Miss  Murdstone  was  good  enough  to  take  me  out  to  the  cart,  and  to  say  on  the 
way  that  she  hoped  I  would  repent,  before  I  came  to  a  bad  end  ;  and  then  I  got  into 
the  cart,  and  the  lazy  horse  walked  off  with  it. 


CHAPTER  V 

I    AM    SENT    AWAY    FROM    HOME 

WE  might  have  gone  about  half  a  mile,  and  my  pocket-handkerchief  was 
quite  wet  through,  when  the  carrier  stopped  short. 
Looking  out  to  ascertain  for  what,  I  saw,  to  my  amazement, 
Peggotty  burst  from  a  hedge  and  climb  into  the  cart.  She  took  me  in 
both  her  arms,  and  squeezed  me  to  her  stays  until  the  pressure  on  my  nose  was 
extremely  painful,  though  I  never  thought  of  that  till  afterwards  when  I  found  it  very 
tender.  Not  a  single  word  did  Peggotty  speak.  Releasing  one  of  her  arms,  she  put 
it  down  in  her  pocket  to  the  elbow,  and  brought  out  some  paper  bags  of  cakes  which 
she  crammed  into  my  pockets,  and  a  purse  which  she  put  into  my  hand,  but  not  one 
word  did  she  say.  After  another  and  a  final  squeeze  with  both  arms,  she  got  down 
from  the  cart  and  ran  away  ;  and  my  belief  is,  and  has  always  been,  without  a  solitary 
button  on  her  gown.  I  picked  up  one,  of  several  that  were  rolling  about,  and  treasured 
it  as  a  keepsake  for  a  long  time. 

The  carrier  looked  at  me,  as  if  to  inquire  if  she  were  coming  back.  I  shook  my 
head,  and  said  I  thought  not.  '  Then,  come  up,'  said  the  carrier  to  the  lazy  horse  ; 
who  came  up  accordingly. 

Having  by  this  time  cried  as  much  as  I  possibly  could,  I  began  to  think  it  was 
of  no  use  crying  any  more,  especially  as  neither  Roderick  Random,  nor  that  captain 
in  the  Royal  British  Navy  had  ever  cried,  that  I  could  remember,  in  trying  situations. 
The  carrier  seeing  me  in  this  resolution,  proposed  that  my  pocket-handkerchief 
should  be  spread  upon  the  horse's  back  to  dry.  I  thanked  him,  and  assented  ;  and 
particularly  small  it  looked,  under  those  circumstances. 

I  had  now  leisure  to  examine  the  purse.  It  was  a  stiff  leather  purse,  with  a  snap, 
and  had  three  bright  shillings  in  it,  which  Peggotty  had  evidently  polished  up  with 
whitening,  for  my  greater  delight.  But  its  most  precious  contents  were  two  half- 
crowns  folded  together  in  a  bit  of  paper,  on  which  was  written,  in  my  mother's  hand, 
'  For  Davy.  With  my  love.'  I  was  so  overcome  by  this,  that  I  asked  the  carrier 
to  be  so  good  as  to  reach  me  my  pocket-handkerchief  again  ;  but  he  said  he  thought 
I  had  better  do  without  it,  and  I  thought  I  really  had,  so  I  wiped  my  eyes  on  my 
sleeve  and  stopped  myself. 

For  good,  too  ;  though,  in  consequence  of  my  previous  emotions,  I  was  still 
occasionally  seized  with  a  stormy  sob.  After  we  had  jogged  on  for  some  little  time, 
I  asked  the  carrier  if  he  was  going  all  the  way  ? 

'  All  the  way  where  ?  '  inquired  the  carrier. 

'  There,'  I  said. 

'  Where  's  there  ?  '  inquired  the  carrier. 

'  Near  London,'  I  said. 

'  Why  that  horse,'  said  the  carrier,  jerking  the  rein  to  point  him  out,  '  would  be 
deader  than  pork  afore  he  got  over  half  the  ground.' 

'  Are  you  only  going  to  Yarmouth,  then  ?  '  I  asked. 

B  a 


42  DAVID  COPrERFIELD 

'  That 's  about  it,'  said  the  carrier.  '  And  there  I  shall  take  you  to  the  stage- 
cutch,  and  the  stage-cutch  that  '11  take  you  to — wherever  it  is.' 

As  this  was  a  great  deal  for  the  carrier  (whose  name  was  Mr.  Barkis)  to  say — 
he  being,  as  I  observed  in  a  former  chapter,  of  a  phlegmatic  temperament,  and  not  at 
aU  conversational — I  offered  him  a  cake  as  a  mark  of  attention,  which  he  ate  at  one 
gulp,  exactly  like  an  elephant,  and  which  made  no  more  impression  on  his  big  face 
than  it  would  have  done  on  an  elephant's. 

'  Did  she  make  'em,  now  ?  '  said  Mr.  Barkis,  always  leaning  forward,  in  his 
slouching  way,  on  the  footboard  of  the  cart  with  an  arm  on  each  knee. 

'  Peggotty,  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  ' 

'  Ah  !  '  said  Mr.  Barkis.     '  Her.' 

'  Yes.     She  makes  all  our  pastry  and  does  all  our  cooking.' 

'  Do  she  though  ?  '  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

He  made  up  his  mouth  as  if  to  whistle,  but  he  didn't  whistle.  He  sat  looking 
at  the  horse's  ears,  as  if  he  saw  something  new  there  ;  and  sat  so  for  a  considerable 
time.     By  and  by,  he  said — - 

'  No  sweethearts,  I  b'lieve  ?  ' 

'  Sweetmeats  did  you  say,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  '  For  I  thought  he  wanted  something 
else  to  eat,  and  had  pointedly  alluded  to  that  description  of  refreshment. 

'  Hearts,'  said  Mr.  Barkis.     '  Sweethearts  ;    no  person  walks  with  her  ?  ' 

'  With  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  Ah  !  '  he  said.     '  Her.' 

'  Oh,  no.     She  never  had  a  sweetheart.' 

'  Didn't  she,  though  ?  '  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Again  he  made  up  his  mouth  to  whistle,  and  again  he  didn't  whistle,  but  sat 
looking  at  the  horse's  ears. 

'  So  she  makes,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  after  a  long  interval  of  reflection,  '  all  the  apple 
parsties,  and  does  all  the  cooking,  do  she  ?  ' 

I  replied  that  such  was  the  fact. 

'  Well.  I  '11  tell  you  what,'  said  Mr.  Barkis.  '  P'raps  you  might  be  writin' 
to  her  ?  ' 

'  I  shall  certainly  write  to  her,'  I  rejoined. 

'  Ah  !  '  he  said,  slowly  turning  his  eyes  towards  me.  '  Well  !  If  you  was  writin' 
to  her,  p'raps  you  'd  recollect  to  say  that  Barkis  was  willin'  ;   would  you  ?  ' 

'  That  Barkis  was  willing,'  I  repeated,  innocently.     '  Is  that  all  the  message  ?  ' 

'  Ye-^es,'  he  said,  considering.     '  Ye — es.     Barkis  is  willin'.' 

'  But  you  will  be  at  Blunderstone  again  to-morrow,  Mr.  Barkis,'  I  said,  faltering 
a  little  at  the  idea  of  my  being  far  away  from  it  then,  '  and  could  give  your  own  message 
so  much  better.' 

As  he  repudiated  this  suggestion,  however,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  and  once 
more  confirmed  his  previous  request  by  saying,  with  profound  gravity,  '  Barkis  is 
willin'.  That 's  the  message,'  I  readily  undertook  its  transmission.  Wliile  I  was 
waiting  for  the  coach  in  the  hotel  at  Yarmouth  that  verj'  afternoon,  I  procured  a 
sheet  of  paper  and  an  inkstand  and  wrote  a  note  to  Peggotty,  which  ran  thus  :  '  My 
dear  Peggotty.  I  have  come  here  safe.  Barkis  is  willing.  My  love  to  mamma. 
Yours  affectionately.  P.S.  He  says  lie  particularly  wants  you  to  know — Barkis  is 
willing.'' 

When  I  had  taken  this  commission  on  myself  prospectively,  Mr.  Barkis  relapsed 


r  AM  SENT  AWAY    FROM    IIOMK  43 

into  perfect  silence  ;  and  I,  feeling  quite  worn  out  by  all  that  had  happened  lately, 
lay  down  on  a  sack  in  the  cart  and  fell  asleep.  I  slept  soundly  until  we  got  to 
Yarmouth  :  which  was  so  entirely  new  and  strange  to  me  in  the  inn-yard  to  which 
we  drove,  that  I  at  once  abandoned  a  latent  hope  I  liad  had  of  meetinj^  with  some 
of  Mr.  Peggotty's  family  tliere,  perhaps  even  with  little  Em'ly  herself. 

The  coach  was  in  the  yard,  shining  very  much  all  over,  but  without  any  horses 
to  it  as  yet ;  and  it  looked  in  that  state  as  if  nothing  was  more  unlikely  than  its  ever 
going  to  London.  I  was  thinking  this,  and  wondering  what  would  ultimately  become 
of  my  box,  which  Mr.  Barkis  had  put  down  on  the  yard-pavement  by  the  pole  (he 
having  driven  up  the  yard  to  turn  his  cart),  and  also  what  would  ultimately  become  of 
mc,  when  a  lady  looked  out  of  a  bow-window  where  some  fowls  and  joints  of  meat 
were  hanging  up,  and  said — 

'  Is  that  the  little  gentleman  from  Blunderstone  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  ma'am,'  I  said. 

'  What  name  ?  '  inquired  the  lady. 

'  Copperfield,  ma'am,'  I  said. 

'  That  won't  do,'  returned  the  lady.  '  Nobody's  dinner  is  paid  for  here,  in 
that  name.' 

'  Is  it  Murdstone,  ma'am  ?  '  I  said. 

'  If  you  're  Master  Murdstone,'  said  the  lady,  '  why  do  you  go  and  give  another 
name  first  ?  ' 

I  explained  to  the  lady  how  it  was,  who  then  rang  a  bell,  and  called  out,  '  William  ! 
show  the  coffee-room  !  '  upon  which  a  waiter  came  running  out  of  a  kitchen  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  yard  to  show  it,  and  seemed  a  good  deal  surprised  when  he  was 
only  to  show  it  to  me. 

It  was  a  large  long  room  with  some  large  maps  in  it.  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  felt 
much  stranger  if  the  maps  had  been  real  foreign  countries,  and  I  cast  away  in  the 
middle  of  them.  I  felt  it  was  taking  a  liberty  to  sit  down,  with  my  cap  in  my  hand,  on 
the  comer  of  the  chair  nearest  the  door  ;  and  when  the  waiter  laid  a  cloth  on  purpose 
for  me,  and  put  a  set  of  casters  on  it,  I  think  I  must  have  turned  red  all  over 
with  modesty. 

He  brought  me  some  chops,  and  vegetables,  and  took  the  covers  off  in  such  a 
bouncing  manner  that  I  was  afraid  I  must  have  given  him  some  offence.  But  he 
greatly  relieved  my  mind  by  putting  a  chair  for  me  at  the  table,  and  saying  very 
affably,  '  Now,  six-foot !   come  on  ! ' 

I  thanked  him,  and  took  my  seat  at  the  board  ;  but  found  it  extremely  difficult 
to  handle  my  knife  and  fork  with  anything  like  dexterity,  or  to  avoid  splashing  myself 
Avith  the  gravy,  while  he  was  standing  opposite,  staring  so  hard,  and  making  me  blush 
in  the  most  dreadful  manner  every  time  I  caught  his  eye.  After  watching  me  into  the 
second  chop,  he  said — 

'  There  's  half  a  pint  of  ale  for  you.     Will  you  have  it  now  ?  ' 

I  thanked  him  and  said  '  Yes.'  Upon  which  he  poured  it  out  of  a  jug  into  a  large 
tumbler,  and  held  it  up  against  the  light,  and  made  it  look  beautiful. 

'  My  eye  !  '  he  said.     '  It  seems  a  good  deal,  don't  it  ?  ' 

'  It  does  seem  a  good  deal,'  I  answered  with  a  smile.  For  it  was  quite  delightful 
to  me  to  find  him  so  pleasant.  He  was  a  twinkling-eyed,  pimple-faced  man,  -rtdth  his 
hair  standing  upright  all  over  his  head  ;  and  as  he  stood  with  one  arm  akimbo,  holding 
up  the  glass  to  the  light  with  the  other  hand,  he  looked  quite  friendly. 


44  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  There  was  a  gentleman  here  yesterday,'  he  said — '  a  stout  gentleman,  by  the  name 
of  Topsawyer — perhaps  you  know  him  ?  ' 

'  No,'  I  said,  '  I  don't  think ' 

'  In  breeches  and  gaiters,  broad-brimmed  hat,  grey  coat,  speckled  choker,'  said 
the  waiter. 

'  No,'  I  said  bashfully,  '  I  haven't  the  pleasure ' 

'  He  came  in  here,'  said  the  waiter,  looking  at  the  light  through  the  tumbler, 
'  ordered  a  glass  of  this  ale — would  order  it — I  told  him  not — drank  it,  and  fell  dead. 
It  was  too  old  for  him.     It  oughtn't  to  be  drawn  ;  that 's  the  fact.' 

I  was  very  much  shocked  to  hear  of  this  melancholy  accident,  and  said  I  thought 
I  had  better  have  some  water. 

'  Why  you  see,'  said  the  waiter,  still  looking  at  the  light  through  the  tumbler, 
with  one  of  his  eyes  shut  up,  '  our  people  don't  like  things  being  ordered  and  left. 
It  offends  'em.  But  /  '11  drink  it,  if  you  like.  I  'm  used  to  it,  and  use  is  everything. 
I  don't  think  it  '11  hurt  me,  if  I  throw  my  head  back,  and  take  it  off  quick.     Shall  I  ?  ' 

I  replied  that  he  would  much  oblige  me  by  drinking  it,  if  he  thought  he  could  do 
it  safely,  but  by  no  means  othei-wise.  When  he  did  throw  his  head  back,  and  take  it 
off  quick,  I  had  a  horrible  fear,  I  confess,  of  seeing  him  meet  the  fate  of  the  lamented 
Mr.  Topsawyer,  and  fall  lifeless  on  the  carpet.  But  it  didn't  hurt  him.  On  the 
contrary,  I  thought  he  seemed  the  fresher  for  it. 

'  What  have  we  got  here  ?  '  he  said,  putting  a  fork  into  my  dish.     '  Not  chops  ?  ' 

'  Chops,'  I  said. 

'  Lord  bless  my  soul  !  '  he  exclaimed,  '  I  didn't  know  they  were  chops.  Why  a 
chop  's  the  very  thing  to  take  off  the  bad  effects  of  that  beer  !     Ain't  it  lucky  ?  ' 

So  he  took  a  chop  by  the  bone  in  one  hand,  and  a  potato  in  the  other,  and  ate 
away  with  a  very  good  appetite,  to  my  extreme  satisfaction.  He  afterwards  took 
another  chop,  and  another  potato  ;  and  after  that  another  chop  and  another  potato. 
When  he  had  done,  he  brought  me  a  pudding,  and  having  set  it  before  me,  seemed  to 
ruminate,  and  to  become  absent  in  his  mind  for  some  moments. 

'  How  's  the  pie  ?  '  he  said,  rousing  himself. 

'  It 's  a  pudding,'  I  made  answer. 

'  Pudding  !  '  he  exclaimed.  '  Wliy,  bless  me,  so  it  is  !  What  ?  '  looking  at  it 
nearer.     '  You  don't  mean  to  say  it 's  a  batter-pudding  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  it  is  indeed.' 

'  Why,  a  batter-pudding,'  he  said,  taking  up  a  table-spoon,  '  is  my  favourite 
pudding  !     Ain't  that  lucky  ?     Come  on,  little  'un,  and  let 's  see  who  '11  get  most.' 

The  waiter  certainly  got  most.  He  entreated  me  more  than  once  to  come  in  and 
win,  but  what  with  his  table-spoon  to  my  tea-spoon,  his  despatch  to  my  despatch,  and 
his  appetite  to  my  appetite,  I  was  left  far  behind  at  the  first  mouthful,  and  had  no 
chance  with  him.  I  never  saw  any  one  enjoy  a  pudding  so  much,  I  think  ;  and  he 
laughed,  when  it  was  all  gone,  as  if  his  enjoyment  of  it  lasted  still. 

Finding  him  so  very  friendly  and  companionable,  it  was  then  that  I  asked  for 
the  pen  and  ink  and  paper  to  write  to  Peggotty.  He  not  only  brought  it  immediately, 
but  was  good  enough  to  look  over  me  while  I  wrote  the  letter.  When  I  had  fuiished  it, 
he  asked  me  where  I  was  going  to  school. 

I  said,  '  Near  London,'  which  was  all  I  knew. 

'  Oh  !  my  eye  !  '  he  said,  looking  very  low-spirited,  '  I  am  sorry  for  that.' 

'  Why  ?  '  I  asked  him. 


r   AM  SENT  AWAY   ITIOM   HOME  45 

'  Oh,  Lord  !  '  he  said,  shakiiif,'  l)is  head,  '  that 's  the  sehool  where  tliey  broke  the 
boy's  ribs — two  ribs — a  little  boy  he  was.  I  should  say  he  was — let  me  see — how  old 
are  you,  about  ?  ' 

I  told  him  between  cifjht  and  nine. 

'  That  's  just  his  age,'  he  said.  '  lie  was  eight  years  and  six  months  old  when  they 
broke  his  first  rib  ;  eight  years  and  eight  months  old  when  they  broke  his  second  and 
did  for  him.' 

I  could  not  disguise  from  myself,  or  from  the  waiter,  that  this  was  an  uncomfort- 
able coincidence,  and  inquired  how  it  was  done.  His  answer  was  not  cheering  to  my 
spirits,  for  it  consisted  of  two  dismal  words  '  With  whopping.' 

The  blowing  of  the  coach-horn  in  the  yard  was  a  seasonable  diversion,  which  made 
me  get  up  and  hesitatingly  inquire  in  the  mingled  pride  and  diffidence  of  having  a 
purse  (which  I  took  out  of  my  pocket),  if  there  was  anything  to  pay. 

'  There  's  a  sheet  of  letter-paper,'  he  returned.  '  Did  you  ever  buy  a  sheet  of 
letter-paper  ?  ' 

I  could  not  remember  that  I  ever  had. 

'  It 's  dear,'  he  said,  '  on  account  of  the  duty.  Threepence.  That  's  the  way 
we  're  taxed  in  this  country.  There's  nothing  else,  except  the  waiter.  Never  mind  the 
ink.     /  lose  by  that.' 

'  What  should  you — what  should  I — how  much  ought  I  to — what  would  it  be  right 
to  pay  the  waiter,  if  you  please  ?  '  I  stammered,  blushing. 

'  If  I  hadn't  a  family,  and  that  family  hadn't  the  cowpock,'  said  the  waiter,  '  I 
wouldn't  take  a  sixpence.  If  I  didn't  support  an  aged  pairint,  and  a  lovely  sister,' — 
here  the  waiter  was  greatly  agitated — '  I  wouldn't  take  a  farthing.  If  I  had  a  good 
place,  and  was  treated  well  here,  I  should  beg  acceptance  of  a  trifle,  instead  of  taking 
of  it.  But  I  live  on  broken  wittles — and  I  sleep  on  the  coals  ' — here  the  waiter  burst 
into  tears. 

I  was  very  much  concerned  for  his  misfortunes,  and  felt  that  any  recognition  short 
of  ninepence  would  be  mere  brutality  and  hardness  of  heart.  Therefore  I  gave  him 
one  of  my  three  bright  shillings,  which  he  received  with  much  humility  and  venera- 
tion, and  spun  up  with  his  thumb,  directly  afterwards,  to  try  the  goodness  of. 

It  was  a  little  disconcerting  to  me,  to  find,  when  I  was  being  helped  up  behind 
the  coach,  that  I  was  supposed  to  have  eaten  all  the  dinner  without  any  assistance. 
I  discovered  this,  from  overhearing  the  lady  in  the  bow-window  say  to  the  guard, 
'  Take  care  of  that  child,  George,  or  he  '11  burst !  '  and  from  observing  that  the  women- 
servants  who  were  about  the  place  came  out  to  look  and  giggle  at  me  as  a  young 
phenomenon.  My  imfortunate  friend  the  waiter,  who  had  quite  recovered  his  spirits, 
did  not  appear  to  be  disturbed  by  this,  but  joined  in  the  general  admiration  without 
being  at  all  confused.  If  I  had  any  doubt  of  him,  I  suppose  this  half-awakened  it ; 
but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  with  the  simple  confidence  of  a  child,  and  the  natural 
reUance  of  a  child  upon  superior  years  (qualities  I  am  very  sorry  any  children  should 
prematurely  change  for  worldly  wisdom),  I  had  no  serious  mistrust  of  him  on  the 
whole,  even  then. 

I  felt  it  rather  hard,  I  must  own,  to  be  made,  without  deserving  it,  the  subject  of 
jokes  between  the  coachman  and  guard  as  to  the  coach  drawing  heavy  behind,  on 
account  of  my  sitting  there,  and  as  to  the  greater  expediency  of  my  travelling  by  waggon. 
The  story  of  my  supposed  appetite  getting  wind  among  the  outside  passengers,  they 
were  merry  upon  it  likewise  ;    and  asked  me  whether  I  was  going  to  be  paid  for,  at 


46  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

school,  as  two  brothers  or  three,  and  whether  I  was  contracted  for,  or  went  upon  the 
regular  terms  ;  with  other  pleasant  questions.  But  the  worst  of  it  was,  that  I  knew  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  eat  anything,  when  an  opportunity  offered,  and  that,  after  a 
rather  light  dinner,  I  should  remain  hungry  all  night — for  I  had  left  my  cakes  behind, 
at  the  hotel,  in  my  hurry.  My  apprehensions  were  realised.  \Vlien  we  stopped  for 
supper  I  couldn't  muster  courage  to  take  any,  though  I  should  have  liked  it  very  much, 
but  sat  by  the  fire  and  said  I  didn't  want  anything.  This  did  not  save  me  from  more 
jokes,  either  ;  for  a  husky-voiced  gentleman  with  a  rough  face,  who  had  been  eating 
out  of  a  sandwich-box  nearly  all  the  way,  except  when  he  had  been  drinking  out  of  a 
bottle,  said  I  was  like  a  boa-constrictor,  who  took  enough  at  one  meal  to  last  him  a  long 
time  ;    after  which  he  actually  brought  a  rash  out  upon  himself  with  boUed  beef. 

We  had  started  from  Yarmouth  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  we  were 
due  in  London  about  eight  next  morning.  It  was  midsummer  weather,  and  the 
evening  was  very  pleasant.  When  we  passed  through  a  village,  I  pictured  to  myself 
what  the  insides  of  the  houses  were  like,  and  what  the  inhabitants  were  about ;  and 
when  boys  came  running  after  us,  and  got  up  behind  and  swung  there  for  a  little  way, 
I  wondered  whether  their  fathers  were  alive,  and  whether  they  were  happy  at  home. 
I  had  plenty  to  think  of,  therefore,  besides  my  mind  running  continually  on  the  kind 
of  place  I  was  going  to — which  was  an  awful  speculation.  Sometimes,  I  remember, 
I  resigned  myself  to  thoughts  of  home  and  Peggotty  ;  and  to  endeavouring,  in  a 
confused  blind  way,  to  recall  how  I  had  felt,  and  what  sort  of  boy  I  used  to  be,  before 
I  bit  Mr.  Murdstone  :  which  I  couldn't  satisfy  myself  about  by  any  means,  I  seemed 
to  have  bitten  him  in  such  a  remote  antiquity. 

The  night  was  not  so  pleasant  as  the  evening,  for  it  got  chilly  ;  and  being  put 
between  two  gentlemen  (the  rough-faced  one  and  another)  to  prevent  my  tumbling 
off  the  coach,  I  was  nearly  smothered  by  their  falling  asleep,  and  completely  blocking 
me  up.  They  squeezed  me  so  hard  sometimes,  that  I  could  not  help  crying  out, 
'  Oh,  if  you  please  !  ' — which  they  didn't  like  at  all,  because  it  woke  them.  Opposite 
me  was  an  elderly  lady  in  a  great  fur  cloak,  who  looked  in  the  dark  more  like  a  hay- 
stack than  a  lady,  she  was  wrapped  up  to  such  a  degree.  This  lady  had  a  basket  with 
her,  and  she  hadn't  known  what  to  do  with  it,  for  a  long  time,  until  she  found  that, 
on  account  of  my  legs  being  short,  it  could  go  underneath  me.  It  cramped  and  hurt 
me  so,  that  it  made  me  perfectly  miserable  :  but  if  I  moved  in  the  least,  and  made 
a  glass  that  was  in  the  basket  rattle  against  something  else  (as  it  was  sure  to  do),  she 
gave  me  the  cruellest  poke  with  her  foot,  and  said,  '  Come,  don't  you  fidget.  Your 
bones  are  young  enough  /  'm  sure  !  ' 

At  last  the  sun  rose,  and  then  my  companions  seemed  to  sleep  easier.  The  diffi- 
culties under  which  they  had  laboured  all  night,  and  which  had  found  utterance  in  the 
most  terrific  gasps  and  snorts,  are  not  to  be  conceived.  As  the  sun  got  higher,  their 
sleep  became  lighter,  and  so  they  gradually  one  by  one  awoke.  I  recollect  being  very 
much  surprised  by  the  feint  everybody  made,  then,  of  not  having  been  to  sleep  at  all, 
and  by  the  uncommon  indignation  with  which  every  one  repelled  the  charge.  I  labour 
under  the  same  kind  of  astonishment  to  this  day,  having  invariably  observed  that  of 
all  human  weaknesses,  the  one  to  which  our  common  nature  is  the  least  disposed  to 
confess  (I  cannot  imagine  why)  is  the  weakness  of  having  gone  to  sleep  in  a  coach. 

What  an  amazing  place  London  was  to  me  when  I  saw  it  in  the  distance,  and 
how  I  believed  all  the  adventures  of  all  my  favourite  heroes  to  be  constantly  enacting 
and  re-enacting  there,  and  how  I  vaguely  made  it  out  in  my  own  mind  to  be  fuller  of 


I  AM  SENT  AWAY  FROM  HOME  47 

wonders  and  wickedness  than  all  the  cities  of  the  earth,  I  need  not  stop  here  to  relate. 
We  approached  it  by  deforces,  and  got,  in  due  time,  to  the  inn  in  the  Whitechapel 
district,  for  which  we  were  hound.  I  forget  whether  it  was  the  Blue  Bull,  or  the  Blue 
Boar ;  but  I  know  it  was  the  Blue  Something,  and  that  its  likeness  was  painted  upon 
the  back  of  the  coach. 

The  guard's  eye  lighted  on  me  as  he  was  getting  down,  and  he  said  at  the  booking- 
office  door — 

'  Is  there  anybody  here  for  a  yoongster  booked  in  the  name  of  Murdstone,  from 
Bloonderstone,  Sooffolk,  to  be  left  till  called  for  ?  ' 

Nobody  answered. 

'  Try  Copperfield,  if  you  please,  sir,'  said  I,  looking  helplessly  down. 

'  Is  there  anybody  here  for  a  yoongster,  booked  in  the  name  of  Murdstone,  from 
Bloonderstone,  Sooffolk,  but  owning  to  the  name  of  Copperfield,  to  be  left  till  called 
for  ?  '  said  the  guard.     '  Come  !     Is  there  anybody  ?  ' 

No.  There  was  nobody.  I  looked  anxiously  around  ;  but  the  inquiry  made  no 
impression  on  any  of  the  bystanders,  if  I  except  a  man  in  gaiters,  with  one  eye,  who 
suggested  that  they  had  better  put  a  brass  collar  round  my  neck,  and  tie  me  up  in 
the  stable. 

A  ladder  was  brought,  and  I  got  down  after  the  lady,  who  was  like  a  haystack  : 
not  daring  to  stir,  until  her  basket  was  removed.  The  coach  was  clear  of  passengers 
by  that  time,  the  luggage  was  very  soon  cleared  out,  the  horses  had  been  taken  out 
before  the  luggage,  and  now  the  coach  itself  was  wheeled  and  backed  off  by  some 
hostlers,  out  of  the  way.  Still,  nobody  appeared,  to  claim  the  dusty  youngster  from 
Blunderstone,  Suffolk. 

More  solitary  than  Robinson  Crusoe,  who  had  nobody  to  look  at  him,  and  see 
that  he  was  solitary,  I  went  into  the  booking-office,  and,  by  invitation  of  the  clerk  on 
duty,  passed  behind  the  counter,  and  sat  down  on  the  scale  at  which  they  weighed 
the  luggage.  Here,  as  I  sat  looking  at  the  parcels,  packages,  and  books,  and  inhaling 
the  smell  of  stables  (ever  since  associated  with  that  morning),  a  procession  of  most 
tremendous  considerations  began  to  march  through  my  mind.  Supposing  nobody 
should  ever  fetch  me,  how  long  would  they  consent  to  keep  me  there  ?  Would  they 
keep  me  long  enough  to  spend  seven  shillings  ?  Should  I  sleep  at  night  in  one  of  those 
wooden  bins,  with  the  other  luggage,  and  wash  myself  at  the  pump  in  the  yard  in  the 
morning  ;  or  should  I  be  turned  out  every  night,  and  expected  to  come  again  to  be 
left  till  called  for,  when  the  office  opened  next  day  ?  Supposing  there  was  no  mistake 
in  the  case,  and  Mr.  Murdstone  had  devised  this  plan  to  get  rid  of  me,  what  should  I 
do  ?  If  they  allowed  me  to  remain  there  until  my  seven  shillings  were  spent,  I  couldn't 
hope  to  remain  there  when  I  began  to  starve.  That  would  obviously  be  inconvenient 
and  unpleasant  to  the  customers,  besides  entailing  on  the  Blue  Wliatever-it-was,  the 
risk  of  funeral  expenses.  If  I  started  off  at  once  and  tried  to  walk  back  home,  how 
could  I  ever  fmd  my  way,  how  could  I  ever  hope  to  walk  so  far,  how  could  I  make  sure 
of  any  one  but  Peggotty,  even  if  I  got  back  ?  If  I  found  out  the  nearest  proper 
authorities,  and  offered  myself  to  go  for  a  soldier,  or  a  sailor,  I  was  such  a  little  fellow 
that  it  was  most  likely  they  wouldn't  take  me  in.  These  thoughts,  and  a  hundred  other 
such  thoughts,  turned  me  burning  hot  and  made  me  giddy  with  apprehension  and 
dismay.  I  was  in  the  height  of  my  fever  when  a  man  entered  and  whispered  to  the 
clerk,  who  presently  slanted  me  off  the  scale,  and  pushed  me  over  to  him,  as  if  I  were 
weighed,  bought,  delivered,  and  paid  for. 


48  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

As  I  went  out  of  the  office  hand-in-hand  with  this  new  acquaintance,  I  stole  a 
look  at  him.  He  was  a  gaunt,  sallow  young  man,  with  hollow  cheeks,  and  a  chin  almost 
as  black  as  Mr.  Murdstone's  ;  but  there  the  likeness  ended,  for  his  whiskers  were 
shaved  off,  and  his  hair,  instead  of  being  glossy,  was  rusty  and  dry.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  suit  of  black  clothes  which  were  rather  rusty  and  dry  too,  and  rather  short  in  the 
sleeves  and  legs  ;  and  he  had  a  white  neckerchief  on,  that  was  not  over-clean.  I  did 
not,  and  do  not,  suppose  that  this  neckerchief  was  all  the  linen  he  wore,  but  it  was  all 
he  showed  or  gave  any  hint  of. 

'  You  're  the  new  boy  ?  '  he  said. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  I  said. 

I  supposed  I  was.     I  didn't  know. 

'  I  'm  one  of  the  masters  at  Salem  House,'  he  said. 

I  made  him  a  bow  and  felt  very  much  overawed.  I  was  so  ashamed  to  allude 
to  a  commonplace  thing  like  my  box,  to  a  scholar  and  a  master  at  Salem  House,  that 
we  had  gone  some  little  distance  from  the  yard  before  I  had  the  hardihood  to  mention 
it.  We  turned  back,  on  my  humbly  insinuating  that  it  might  be  useful  to  me  here- 
after ;   and  he  told  the  clerk  that  the  carrier  had  instructions  to  call  for  it  at  noon. 

'  If  you  please,  sir,'  I  said,  when  we  had  accomplished  about  the  same  distance 
as  before,  '  is  it  far  ?  ' 

'  It 's  down  by  Blackheath,'  he  said. 

'  Is  that  far,  sir  ?  '  I  diffidently  asked. 

'  It 's  a  good  step,'  he  said.  '  We  shall  go  by  the  stage-coach.  It 's  about 
six  miles.' 

I  was  so  faint  and  tired,  tliat  the  idea  of  holding  out  for  six  miles  more  was  too 
much  for  me.  I  took  heart  to  tell  him  that  I  had  had  nothing  all  night,  and  that  if  he 
would  allow  me  to  buy  something  to  eat  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  him.  He 
appeared  surprised  at  this — I  see  liim  stop  and  look  at  me  now — and  after  considering 
for  a  few  moments  said  he  wanted  to  call  on  an  old  person  who  lived  not  far  off,  and 
that  the  best  way  would  be  for  me  to  buy  some  bread,  or  whatever  I  liked  best  that  was 
wholesome,  and  make  my  breakfast  at  her  house,  where  we  could  get  some  milk. 

Accordingly  we  looked  in  at  a  baker's  window,  and  after  I  had  made  a  series  of 
proposals  to  buy  everything  that  was  bilious  in  the  shop,  and  he  had  rejected  them 
one  by  one,  we  decided  in  favour  of  a  nice  little  loaf  of  brown  bread,  which  cost  me 
threepence.  Then,  at  a  grocer's  shop,  we  bought  an  egg  and  a  slice  of  streaky  bacon  ; 
which  still  left  what  I  thought  a  good  deal  of  change,  out  of  the  second  of  the  bright 
shillings,  and  made  me  consider  London  a  very  cheap  place.  These  provisions  laid  in, 
we  went  on  through  a  great  noise  and  uproar  that  confused  my  weary  head  beyond 
description,  and  over  a  bridge  which,  no  doubt,  was  London  Bridge  (indeed  I  think 
he  told  me  so,  but  I  was  half  asleep),  imtil  we  came  to  the  poor  person's  house,  which 
was  a  part  of  some  almshouses,  as  I  knew  by  their  look,  and  by  an  inscription  on  a 
stone  over  the  gate,  which  said  they  were  established  for  twenty-five  poor  women. 

The  Master  at  Salem  House  lifted  the  latch  of  one  of  a  number  of  little  black 
doors  that  were  all  alike,  and  had  each  a  little  diamond-paned  window  on  one  side,  and 
another  little  diamond-paned  window  above  ;  and  we  went  into  the  little  house  of 
one  of  these  poor  old  women,  who  was  blowing  a  iire  to  make  a  little  saucepan  boil. 
On  seeing  the  Master  enter,  the  old  woman  stopped  with  the  bellows  on  her  knee, 
and  said  something  that  I  thought  sounded  like  '  My  Charley  !  '  but  on  seeing  me  come 
in  too,  she  got  up,  and  rubbing  her  hands  made  a  confused  sort  of  half-curtsey. 


I  AM  SENT  AWAY  FROM  HOME  49 

'  Can  you  cook  this  young  gentleman's  breakfast  for  him,  if  you  please  ?  '  said  the 
Master  at  Salem  House. 

'  Can  I  ?  '  said  the  old  woman.     '  Yes  can  I,  sure  !  ' 

'  How  's  Mrs.  Fibbitson  to-day  ?  '  said  the  Master,  looking  at  another  old  woman 
in  a  large  chair  by  the  iirc,  who  was  such  a  bundle  of  clothes  that  I  feel  grateful  to  this 
hour  for  not  having  sat  upon  her  by  mistake. 

'  Ah  she  's  poorly,'  said  the  first  old  woman.  '  It 's  one  of  her  bad  d.ays.  If  the 
fire  was  to  go  out,  through  any  accident,  I  verily  believe  she  'd  go  out  too,  and  never 
come  to  life  again.' 

As  they  looked  at  her,  I  looked  at  her  also.  Although  it  was  a  warm  day,  she 
seemed  to  think  of  nothing  but  the  fire.  I  fancied  she  was  jealous  even  of  the  sauce- 
pan on  it ;  and  I  have  reason  to  know  that  she  took  its  impressment  into  the  service 
of  boiling  my  egg  and  broiling  my  bacon,  in  dudgeon  ;  for  I  saw  her,  with  my  own 
discomfited  eyes,  shake  her  fist  at  me  once,  when  those  culinary  operations  were  going 
on,  and  no  one  else  was  looking.  The  sun  streamed  in  at  the  little  window,  but  she 
sat  with  her  own  back  and  the  back  of  the  large  chair  towards  it,  screening  the  fire 
as  if  she  were  sedulously  keeping  it  warm,  instead  of  it  keeping  her  warm,  and  watching 
it  in  a  most  distrustful  manner.  The  completion  of  the  preparations  for  my  break- 
fast, by  relieving  the  fire,  gave  her  such  extreme  joy  that  she  laughed  aloud — and  a  very 
unmelodious  laugh  she  had,  I  must  say. 

I  sat  down  to  my  brown  loaf,  my  egg,  and  my  rasher  of  bacon,  with  a  basin  of  milk 
besides,  and  made  a  most  delicious  meal.  While  I  was  yet  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  it, 
the  old  woman  of  the  house  said  to  the  Master — 

'  Have  you  got  your  flute  with  you  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  he  returned. 

'  Have  a  blow  at  it,'  said  the  old  woman,  coaxingly.     '  Do  !  ' 

The  Master,  upon  this,  put  his  hand  underneath  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and  brought 
out  his  flute  in  three  pieces,  which  he  screwed  together,  and  began  immediately  to  play. 
My  impression  is,  after  many  years  of  consideration,  that  there  never  can  have  been 
anybody  in  the  world  who  played  worse.  He  made  the  most  dismal  sounds  I  have  ever 
heard  produced  by  any  means,  natural  or  artificial.  I  don't  know  what  the  tunes 
were — if  there  were  such  things  in  the  performance  at  all,  which  I  doubt — but  the 
influence  of  the  strain  upon  me  was,  first,  to  make  me  think  of  all  my  sorrows  until  I 
could  hardly  keep  my  tears  back  ;  then  to  take  away  my  appetite  ;  and  lastly,  to 
make  me  so  sleepy  that  I  couldn't  keep  my  ej'es  open.  They  begin  to  close  again, 
and  I  begin  to  nod,  as  the  recollection  rises  fresh  upon  me.  Once  more  the  little 
room,  with  its  open  comer  cupboard,  and  its  square-backed  chairs,  and  its  angular 
little  staircase  leading  to  the  room  above,  and  its  three  peacock's  feathers  displayed 
over  the  mantelpiece — ^I  remember  wondering  when  I  first  went  in,  what  that  peacock 
would  have  thought  if  he  had  known  what  his  finery  was  doomed  to  come  to — fades 
from  before  me,  and  I  nod,  and  sleep.  The  flute  becomes  inaudible,  the  wheels  of  the 
coach  are  heard  instead,  and  I  am  on  my  journey.  The  coach  jolts,  I  wake  Avith  a  start, 
and  the  flute  has  come  back  again,  and  the  Master  at  Salem  House  is  sitting  with  his 
legs  crossed,  playing  it  dolefully,  while  the  old  woman  of  the  house  looks  on  delighted. 
She  fades  in  her  turn,  and  he  fades,  and  all  fades,  and  there  is  no  flute,  no  Master,  no 
Salem  House,  no  David  Copperfield,  no  anything  but  heavy  sleep. 

I  dreamed,  I  thought,  that  once  while  he  was  blowing  into  this  dismal  flute,  the  old 
woman  of  the  house,  who  had  gone  nearer  and  nearer  to  him  in  her  ecstatic  admiration, 


50  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

leaned  over  the  back  of  his  chair  and  gave  him  an  affectionate  squeeze  round  the 
neck,  which  stopped  his  playing  for  a  moment.  I  was  in  the  middle  state  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  either  then  or  immediately  afterwards  ;  for,  as  he  resumed — 
it  was  a  real  fact  that  he  had  stopped  playing — I  saw  and  heard  the  same  old  woman 
ask  Mrs.  Fibbitson  if  it  wasn't  delicious  (meaning  the  flute),  to  which  Mrs.  Fibbitson 
replied,  '  Ay,  ay !  yes  !  '  and  nodded  at  the  fire  :  to  which,  I  am  persuaded,  she  gave 
the  credit  of  the  whole  performance. 

When  I  seemed  to  have  been  dozing  a  long  while,  the  Master  at  Salem  House 
unscrewed  his  flute  into  the  three  pieces,  put  them  up  as  before,  and  took  me  away. 
We  found  the  coach  very  near  at  hand,  and  got  upon  the  roof ;  but  I  was  so  dead 
sleepy,  that  when  we  stopped  on  the  road  to  take  up  somebody  else,  they  put  me  inside 
where  there  were  no  passengers,  and  where  I  slept  profoundly,  until  I  found  the  coach 
going  at  a  footpace  up  a  steep  hill  among  green  leaves.  Presently,  it  stopped,  and  had 
come  to  its  destination. 

A  short  walk  brought  us — I  mean  the  Master  and  me — to  Salem  House,  which 
was  enclosed  with  a  high  brick  wall,  and  looked  very  dull.  Over  a  door  in  this  wall 
was  a  board  with  Salem  House  upon  it ;  and  through  a  grating  in  this  door  we  were 
surveyed,  when  we  rang  the  bell,  by  a  surly  face,  which  I  found,  on  the  door  being 
opened,  belonged  to  a  stout  man  with  a  bull-neck,  a  wooden  leg,  over-hanging  temples, 
and  his  hair  cut  close  all  round  his  head. 

'  The  new  boy,'  said  the  Master. 

The  man  with  the  wooden  leg  eyed  me  all  over — it  didn't  take  long,  for  there  was 
not  much  of  me — and  locked  the  gate  behind  us,  and  took  out  the  key.  We  were  going 
up  to  the  house,  among  some  dark  heavy  trees,  when  he  called  after  my  conductor. 

'  Hallo  !  ' 

We  looked  back,  and  he  was  standing  at  the  door  of  a  little  lodge,  where  he  lived, 
with  a  pair  of  boots  in  his  hand. 

'  Here  !  The  cobbler  's  been,'  he  said,  '  since  you  've  been  out,  Mr.  Mell,  and  he 
says  he  can't  mend  'em  any  more.  He  says  there  ain't  a  bit  of  the  original  boot  left, 
and  he  wonders  you  expect  it.' 

With  these  words  he  threw  the  boots  towards  Mr.  Mell,  who  went  back  a  few 
paces  to  pick  them  up,  and  looked  at  them  (very  disconsolately,  I  was  afraid)  as  we 
went  on  together.  I  observed  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  boots  he  had  on  were 
a  good  deal  the  worse  for  wear,  and  that  his  stocking  was  just  breaking  out  in  one  place, 
like  a  bud. 

Salem  House  was  a  square  brick  building  with  wings,  of  a  bare  and  unfurnished 
appearance.  All  about  it  was  so  very  quiet,  that  I  said  to  Mr.  Mell  I  supposed  the  boys 
were  out ;  and  he  seemed  surprised  at  my  not  knowing  that  it  was  holiday-time. 
That  all  the  boys  were  at  their  several  homes.  That  Mr.  Creakle,  the  proprietor,  was 
down  by  the  sea-side  with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Creakle.  And  that  I  was  sent  in  holiday-time 
as  a  punishment  for  my  misdoing.     All  of  which  he  explained  to  me  as  we  went  along. 

I  gazed  upon  the  schoolroom  into  which  he  took  me,  as  the  most  forlorn  and 
desolate  place  I  had  ever  seen.  I  see  it  now.  A  long  room,  with  three  long  rows  of 
desks,  and  six  of  forms,  and  bristling  all  round  with  pegs  for  hats  and  slates.  Scraps 
of  old  copy-books  and  exercises  litter  the  dirty  floor.  Some  silkworms'  houses,  made 
of  the  same  materials,  are  scattered  over  the  desks.  Two  miserable  little  white  mice, 
left  behind  by  their  owner,  are  running  up  and  down  in  a  fusty  castle  made  of  paste- 
board and  wire,  looking  in  all  the  comers  with  their  red  eyes  for  anything  to  eat.     A 


r  AM  SENT  AWAY  FROM  HOME  5i 

bird,  in  a  cage  very  little  bigger  than  himself,  makes  a  mournful  rattle  now  and  then 
in  hopping  on  his  perch,  two  inches  high,  or  dropping  from  it ;  but  neither  sings  nor 
chiqis.  There  is  a  strange  unwholesome  smell  upon  the  room,  like  mildewed  corduroys, 
sweet  apples  wanting  air,  and  rotten  books.  There  could  not  well  be  more  ink  splashed 
about  it,  it  it  had  been  roofless  from  its  first  construction,  and  the  skies  had  rained, 
snowed,  hailed,  and  blown  ink  through  the  varying  seasons  of  the  year. 

Mr.  Mell  having  left  me  while  he  took  his  irreparable  boots  upstairs,  I  went  softly 
to  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  observing  all  this  as  I  crept  along.  Suddenly  I  came 
upon  a  pasteboard  placard,  beautifully  written,  which  was  lying  on  the  desk,  and 
bore  these  words  :   '  Take  care  of  him.     He  bites.'' 

I  got  upon  the  desk  immediately,  appre'.iensive  of  at  least  a  great  dog  under- 
neath. But,  though  I  looked  all  round  with  anxious  eyes,  I  could  see  nothing  of 
him.  I  was  still  engaged  in  peering  about,  when  Mr.  Mell  came  back,  and  asked  me 
what  I  did  up  there  ? 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  says  I,  '  if  you  please,  I  'm  looking  for  the  dog.' 
'  Dog  ?  '  says  he.     '  What  dog  ?  ' 
'  Isn't  it  a  dog,  sir  ?  ' 
'  Isn't  what  a  dog  ?  ' 

'  That  's  to  be  taken  care  of,  sir  ;   that  bites  ?  ' 

'  No,  Copperfield,'  says  he,  gravely,  '  that 's  not  a  dog.  That 's  a  boy.  My 
instructions  are,  Copperfield,  to  put  this  placard  on  your  back.  I  am  sorry  to  make 
such  a  beginning  with  you,  but  I  must  do  it.' 

With  that  he  took  me  down,  and  tied  the  placard,  which  was  neatly  constructed 
for  the  purpose,  on  my  shoulders  like  a  knapsack  ;  and  wherever  I  went  afterwards, 
I  had  the  consolation  of  carrying  it. 

What  I  suffered  from  that  placard  nobody  can  imagine.  Whether  it  was  possible 
for  people  to  see  me  or  not,  I  always  fancied  that  somebody  was  reading  it.  It  was 
no  relief  to  turn  round  and  find  nobody  ;  for  wherever  my  back  was,  there  I  imagined 
somebody  always  to  be.  That  cruel  man  with  the  wooden  leg,  aggravated  my  suffer- 
ings. He  was  in  authority,  and  if  he  ever  saw  me  leaning  against  a  tree,  or  a  wall,  or 
the  house,  he  roared  out  from  his  lodge-door  in  a  stupendous  voice,  '  Hallo,  you  sir  ! 
You,  Copperfield  !  Show  that  badge  conspicuous,  or  I  '11  report  you  !  '  The  play- 
ground Avas  a  bare  gravelled  yard,  open  to  all  the  back  of  the  house  and  the  offices  ; 
and  I  knew  that  the  servants  read  it,  and  the  butcher  read  it,  and  the  baker  read  it ; 
that  everybody,  in  a  word,  who  came  backwards  and  fonvards  to  the  house,  of  a 
morning  when  I  was  ordered  to  walk  there,  read  that  I  was  to  be  taken  care  of,  for  I 
bit.  I  recollect  that  I  positively  began  to  have  a  dread  of  myself,  as  a  kind  of  wild 
boy  who  did  bite. 

There  was  an  old  door  in  this  playground,  on  which  the  boys  had  a  custom  of 
carving  their  names.  It  was  completely  covered  with  such  inscriptions.  In  my 
dread  of  the  end  of  the  vacation  and  their  coming  back,  I  could  not  read  a  boy"s  name, 
without  inquiring  in  what  tone  and  with  what  emphasis  he  would  read,  '  Take  care  of 
him.  He  bites.'  There  was  one  boy — a  certain  J.  Steerforth — who  cut  his  name 
very  deep  and  very  often,  who,  I  conceived,  would  read  it  in  a  rather  strong  voice, 
and  afterwards  pull  my  hair.  There  was  another  boy,  one  Tommy  Traddles,  who  I 
dreaded  would  make  game  of  it,  and  pretend  to  be  dreadfully  frightened  of  me.  There 
was  a  third,  George  Demple,  who  I  fancied  would  sing  it.  I  have  looked,  a  little 
shrinking  creature,  at  that  door,  until  the  owners  of  all  the  names — there  were  five- 


52  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

and-forty  of  them  in  the  school  then,  Mr.  Mell  said — seemed  to  send  me  to  Coventry 
by  general  acclamation,  and  to  cry  out,  each  in  his  own  way,  '  Take  care  of  him. 
He  bites  !  ' 

It  was  the  same  with  the  places  at  the  desks  and  forms.  It  was  the  same  with  the 
groves  of  deserted  bedsteads  I  peeped  at,  on  my  way  to,  and  when  I  was  in,  my  own 
bed.  I  remember  dreaming  night  after  night,  of  being  with  my  mother  as  she  used  to 
be,  or  of  going  to  a  party  at  Mr.  Peggotty's,  or  of  travelling  outside  the  stage-coach, 
or  of  dining  again  with  my  unfortunate  friend  the  waiter,  and  in  all  these  circum- 
stances making  people  scream  and  stare,  by  the  unhappy  disclosure  that  I  had  nothing 
on  but  my  little  night-shirt,  and  that  placard. 

In  the  monotony  of  my  life,  and  in  my  constant  apprehension  of  the  re-opening  of 
the  school,  it  was  such  an  insupportable  affliction  !  I  had  long  tasks  every  day  to  do 
with  Mr.  Mell ;  but  I  did  them,  there  being  no  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  here,  and  got 
through  them  without  disgrace.  Before,  and  after  them,  I  walked  about — supervised, 
as  I  have  mentioned,  by  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg.  How  vividly  I  call  to  mind 
the  damp  about  the  house,  the  green  cracked  flagstones  in  the  court,  an  old  leaky 
water-butt,  and  the  discoloured  trunks  of  some  of  the  grim  trees,  which  seemed  to 
have  dripped  more  in  the  rain  than  other  trees,  and  to  have  blown  less  in  the  sun  ! 
At  one  we  dined,  Mr.  Mell  and  I,  at  the  upper  end  of  a  long  bare  dining-room,  full  of 
deal  tables  and  smelling  of  fat.  Then,  we  had  more  tasks  until  tea,  which  Mr.  Mell 
drank  out  of  a  blue  tea-cup,  and  I  out  of  a  tin  pot.  All  day  long,  and  until  seven 
or  eight  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Mell,  at  his  own  detached  desk  in  the  school-room,  worked 
hard  with  pen,  ink,  ruler,  books,  and  writing-paper,  making  out  the  bills  (as  I  found) 
for  last  half-year.  When  he  had  put  up  his  things  for  the  night,  he  took  out  his  flute, 
and  blew  at  it,  until  I  almost  thought  he  would  gradually  blow  his  whole  being  into  the 
large  hole  at  the  top,  and  ooze  away  at  the  keys. 

I  picture  my  small  self  in  the  dimly-lighted  rooms,  sitting  with  my  head  upon  my 
hand,  listening  to  the  doleful  performance  of  Mr.  MeU,  and  conning  to-morrow's  lessons. 
I  picture  myself  with  my  books  shut  up,  still  listening  to  the  doleful  performance  of 
Mr.  Mell,  and  listening  through  it  to  what  used  to  be  at  home,  and  to  the  blowing  of 
the  wind  on  Yarmouth  flats,  and  feeling  very  sad  and  solitary.  I  picture  myself 
going  up  to  bed,  among  the  unused  rooms,  and  sitting  on  my  bed-side  crying  for  a 
comfortable  word  from  Peggotty.  I  picture  myself  coming  downstairs  in  the  morning, 
and  looking  through  a  long  ghastly  gash  of  a  staircase  window  at  the  school-bell 
hanging  on  the  top  of  an  outhouse  with  a  weather-cock  above  it ;  and  dreading  the  time 
when  it  shall  ring  J.  Steerforth  and  the  rest  to  work.  Such  time  is  only  second,  in  my 
foreboding  apprehensions,  to  the  time  when  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg  shall  unlock 
the  rusty  gate  to  give  admission  to  the  awful  Mr.  Creakle.  I  cannot  think  I  was  a 
very  dangerous  character  in  any  of  these  aspects,  but  in  all  of  them  I  carried  the  same 
warning  on  my  back. 

Mr.  Mell  never  said  much  to  me,  but  he  was  never  harsh  to  me.  I  suppose  we 
were  company  to  each  other,  without  talking.  I  forgot  to  mention  that  he  would  talk 
to  himself  sometimes,  and  grin,  and  clench  his  fist,  and  grind  his  teeth,  and  pull  his 
hair  in  an  unaccountable  manner.  But  he  had  these  peculiarities.  At  first  they 
frightened  me,  though  I  soon  got  used  to  them. 


CHAPTER    VI 

I    ENLARGE    MY    CIRCLE    OF    ACQUAINTANCE 

I  HAD  led  this  life  about  a  month,  when  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg  began  to 
stump  about  with  a  mop  and  a  bucket  of  water,  from  which  I  inferred  that 
preparations  were  making  to  receive  Mr.  Creakle  and  the  boys.  I  was  not 
mistaken  ;  for  the  mop  came  into  the  schoolroom  before  long,  and  turned  out 
Mr.  Mell  and  me,  who  lived  where  we  could,  and  got  on  how  we  could,  for  some  days, 
during  which  we  were  always  in  the  way  of  two  or  three  young  women,  who  had  rarely 
shown  themselves  before,  and  were  so  continually  in  the  midst  of  dust  that  I  sneezed 
almost  as  much  as  if  Salem  House  had  been  a  great  snuff-box. 

One  day  I  was  informed  by  Mr.  Mell,  that  Mr.  Creakle  would  be  home  that  evening. 
In  the  evening,  after  tea,  I  heard  that  he  was  come.  Before  bed-time,  I  was  fetched 
by  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg  to  appear  before  him. 

Mr.  Creakle's  part  of  the  house  was  a  good  deal  more  comfortable  than  ours, 
and  he  had  a  snug  bit  of  garden  that  looked  pleasant  after  the  dusty  playground,  which 
was  such  a  desert  in  miniature,  that  I  thought  no  one  but  a  camel,  or  a  dromedary, 
could  have  felt  at  home  in  it.  It  seemed  to  me  a  bold  thing  even  to  take  notice  that 
the  passage  looked  comfortable,  as  I  went  on  my  way,  trembling  to  Mr.  Creakle's 
presence  :  which  so  abashed  me,  when  I  was  ushered  into  it,  that  I  hardly  saw  Mrs. 
Creakle  or  Miss  Creakle  (who  were  both  there,  in  the  parlour),  or  anything  but  Mr. 
Creakle,  a  stout  gentleman  with  a  bunch  of  watch-chain  and  seals,  in  an  arm-chair 
with  a  tumbler  and  a  bottle  beside  him. 

'  So  !  '  said  Mr.  Creakle.  '  This  is  the  young  gentleman  whose  teeth  are  to  be 
filed  !     Turn  him  round.' 

The  wooden-legged  man  turned  me  about  so  as  to  exhibit  the  placard  ;  and 
having  afforded  time  for  a  full  survey  of  it,  turned  me  about  again,  with  my  face  to 
Mr.  Creakle,  and  posted  himself  at  Mr.  Creakle's  side.  Mr.  Creakle's  face  was  fiery, 
and  his  eyes  were  small,  and  deep  in  his  head  ;  he  had  thick  veins  in  his  forehead,  a 
little  nose,  and  a  large  chin.  He  was  bald  on  the  top  of  his  head  ;  and  had  some 
thin  wet-looking  hair  that  was  just  turning  grey,  brushed  across  each  temple,  so  that 
the  two  sides  interlaced  on  his  forehead.  But  the  circumstance  about  him  which 
impressed  me  most,  was,  that  he  had  no  voice,  but  spoke  in  a  whisper.  The  exertion 
this  cost  him,  or  the  consciousness  of  talking  in  that  feeble  way,  made  his  angry  face 
so  much  more  angry,  and  his  thick  veins  so  much  thicker,  when  he  spoke,  that  I  am 
not  surprised,  on  looking  back,  at  this  peculiarity  striking  me  as  his  chief  one. 

'  Now,'  said  Mr.  Creakle.     '  \Vliat  's  the  report  of  this  boy  ?  ' 

'  There  's  nothing  against  him  yet,'  returned  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg.  '  There 
has  been  no  opportunity.' 

I  thought  Mr.  Creakle  was  disappointed.  I  thought  Mrs.  and  Miss  Creakle  (at 
whom  I  now  glanced  for  the  first  time,  and  who  were,  both,  thin  and  quiet)  were  not 
disappointed. 

'  Come  here,  sir  !  '  said  Mr.  Creakle,  beckoning  to  me. 

'  Come  here  !  '  said  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg,  repeating  the  gesture. 


54  DAVID  COPrERFIELD 

'  I  have  the  happiness  of  knowing  your  father-in-law,'  whispered  Mr.  Creakle, 
taking  me  by  the  ear ;  '  and  a  worthy  man  he  is,  and  a  man  of  a  strong  character.  He 
knows  me,  and  I  know  him.  Do  you  know  me  ?  Hey  ?  '  said  Mr.  Creakle,  pinching 
my  ear  with  ferocious  playfulness. 

'  Not  yet,  sir,'  I  said,  flinching  with  the  pain. 

'  Not  yet  ?     Hey  ?  '  repeated  Mr.  Creakle.     '  But  you  will  soon.     Hey  ?  ' 
'  You  will  soon.     Hey  ?  '  repeated  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg.     I  afterwards 
found  that  he  generally  acted,  with  his  strong  voice,  as  Mr.  Creakle's  interpreter  to 
the  boys. 

I  was  very  much  frightened,  and  said  I  hoped  so,  if  he  pleased.  I  felt,  all  this 
while,  as  if  my  ear  was  blazing  ;  he  pinched  it  so  hard. 

'  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  am,'  whispered  Mr.  Creakle,  letting  it  go  at  last,  with  a  screw 
at  parting  that  brought  the  water  into  my  eyes.     '  I  'm  a  Tartar.' 
'  A  Tartar,'  said  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg. 

'  When  I  say  I  '11  do  a  thing,  I  do  it,'  said  Mr.  Creakle  ;  '  and  when  I  say  I  will 
have  a  thing  done,  I  will  have  it  done.' 

'  — Will  have  a  thing  done,  I  will  have  it  done,'  repeated  the  man  with  the 
wooden  leg. 

'  I  am  a  determined  character,'  said  Mr.  Creakle.     '  That 's  what  I  am.     I  do 
my  duty.     That 's  what  /  do.     My  flesh  and  blood,'  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Creakle  as  he 
said  this,  '  when  it  rises  against  me,  is  not  my  flesh  and  blood.     I  discard  it.     Has 
that  fellow,'  to  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg,  '  been  here  again  ?  ' 
'  No,'  was  the  answer. 

'  No,'  said  Mr.  Creakle.  '  He  knows  better.  He  knows  me.  Let  him  keep  away. 
I  say  let  him  keep  away,'  said  Mr.  Creakle,  striking  his  hand  upon  the  table,  and 
looking  at  Mrs.  Creakle,  '  for  he  knows  me.  Now  you  have  begun  to  know  me  too, 
my  young  friend,  and  you  may  go.     Take  him  away.' 

I  was  very  glad  to  be  ordered  away,  for  Mrs.  and  Miss  Creakle  were  both  wiping 
their  eyes,  and  I  felt  as  uncomfortable  for  them  as  I  did  for  myself.  But  I  had  a 
petition  on  my  mind  which  concerned  me  so  nearly,  that  I  couldn't  help  saying,  though 
I  wondered  at  my  own  courage — 

'  If  you  please,  sir ' 

Mr.  Creakle  whispered,  '  Hah  !  What 's  this  ?  '  and  bent  his  eyes  upon  me,  as 
if  he  would  have  burnt  me  up  with  them. 

'  If  you  please,  sir,'  I  faltered,  '  if  I  might  be  allowed  (I  am  very  sorry  indeed,  sir, 

for  what  I  did)  to  take  this  writing  off,  before  the  boys  come  back ' 

Whether  Mr.  Creakle  was  in  earnest,  or  whether  he  only  did  it  to  frighten  me,  I 
don't  know,  but  he  made  a  burst  out  of  his  chair,  before  which  I  precipitately  retreated, 
without  waiting  for  the  escort  of  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg,  and  never  once  stopped 
until  I  reached  my  own  bedroom,  where,  finding  I  was  not  pursued,  I  went  to  bed,  as 
it  was  time,  and  lay  quaking,  for  a  couple  of  hours. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Sharp  came  back.  Mi-.  Sharp  was  the  first  master,  and  superior 
to  Mr.  Mell.  Mr.  Mell  took  his  meals  with  the  boys,  but  Mr.  Sharp  dined  and  supped 
at  Mr.  Creakle's  table.  He  was  a  limp,  delicate-looking  gentleman,  I  thought,  with  a 
good  deal  of  nose,  and  a  way  of  carrying  his  head  on  one  side,  as  if  it  were  a  little 
too  heavy  for  him.  His  hair  was  very  smooth  and  wavy  ;  but  I  was  informed  by  the 
very  first  boy  who  came  back  that  it  was  a  wig  (a  second-hand  one  he  said),  and  that 
Mr.  Sharp  went  out  every  Saturday  afternoon  to  get  it  curled. 


I  ENLARGE  MY  CIRCLE  OF  ACQUAINTANCE       55 

It  was  no  other  than  Tommy  Traddles  who  gave  me  this  piece  of  intelligence. 
He  was  the  first  boy  who  returned.  He  introduced  himself  by  informing  me  that  I 
should  find  his  name  on  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  gate,  over  the  top  bolt ;  upon  that 
I  said,  '  Traddles  ?  '  to  which  he  replied,  '  The  same,'  and  then  he  asked  me  for  a  full 
account  of  myself  and  family. 

It  was  a  happy  circumstance  for  me  that  Traddles  came  back  first.  lie  enjoyed 
my  placard  so  much,  that  he  saved  me  from  the  embarrassment  of  either  disclosure 
or  concealment,  by  presenting  me  to  every  other  boy  who  came  back,  great  or  small, 
immediately  on  his  arrival,  in  this  form  of  introduction,  '  Look  hore  !  Here  's  a  game  !  ' 
Happily,  too,  the  greater  part  of  the  boys  came  back  low-spirited,  and  were  not  so 
boisterous  at  my  expense  as  I  had  expected.  Some  of  them  certainly  did  dance 
about  me  like  wild  Indians,  and  the  greater  part  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
pretending  that  I  was  a  dog,  and  patting  and  smoothing  me,  lest  I  should  bite,  and 
saying,  '  Lie  down,  sir !  '  and  calling  me  Towzer.  This  was  naturally  confusing, 
among  so  many  strangers,  and  cost  me  some  tears,  but  on  the  whole  it  was  much 
better  than  I  had  anticipated. 

I  was  not  considered  as  being  formally  received  into  the  school,  however,  until 
J.  Steerforth  arrived.  Before  this  boy,  who  was  reputed  to  be  a  great  scholar,  and  was 
very  good-looking,  and  at  least  half  a  dozen  years  my  senior,  I  was  carried  as  before 
a  magistrate.  He  inquired,  under  a  shed  in  the  playground,  into  the  particulars  of 
my  punishment,  and  was  pleased  to  express  his  opinion  that  it  was  '  a  jolly  shame  '  ; 
for  which  I  became  bound  to  him  ever  aftenvards. 

'  What  money  have  you  got,  Copperfield  ?  '  he  said,  walking  aside  with  me  when 
he  had  disposed  of  my  affair  in  these  terms. 

I  told  him  seven  shillings. 

'  You  had  better  give  it  to  me  to  take  care  of,'  he  said.  '  At  least,  you  can  if  you 
like.     You  needn't  if  you  don't  like.' 

I  hastened  to  comply  with  his  friendly  suggestion,  and  opening  Peggotty's  purse, 
turned  it  upside  down  into  his  hand. 

'  Do  you  want  to  spend  anything  now  ?  '  he  asked  me. 

'  No,  thank  you,'  I  replied. 

'  You  can,  if  you  like,  you  know,'  said  Steerforth.     '  Say  the  word.' 

'  No,  thank  you,  sir,'  I  repeated. 

'  Perhaps  you  'd  like  to  spend  a  couple  of  shillings  or  so  in  a  bottle  of  currant 
wine,  by  and  by,  up  in  the  bedroom  ?  '  said  Steerforth.  '  You  belong  to  my  bedroom, 
I  find.' 

It  certainly  had  not  occurred  to  me  before,  but  I  said,  Yes,  I  should  like  that. 

'  Very  good,'  said  Steerforth.  '  You  '11  be  glad  to  spend  another  shilling  or  so, 
in  almond  cakes,  I  dare  say  ?  ' 

I  said.  Yes,  I  should  like  that,  too. 

'  And  another  shilling  or  so  in  biscuits,  and  another  in  fruit,  eh  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 
'  I  say,  young  Copperfield,  you  're  going  it !  ' 

I  smiled  because  he  smiled,  but  I  was  a  little  troubled  in  my  mind,  too. 

'  Well  1  '  said  Steerforth.  '  We  must  make  it  stretch  as  far  as  we  can  ;  that 's 
all.  I  '11  do  the  best  in  my  power  for  you.  I  can  go  out  when  I  like,  and  I  '11  smuggle 
the  prog  in.'  With  these  words  he  put  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and  kindly  told  me 
not  to  make  myself  uneasy  ;  he  would  take  care  it  should  be  all  right. 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  if  that  were  all  right  which  I  had  a  secret  misgiving 


56  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

was  nearly  all  wrong — for  I  feared  it  was  a  waste  of  my  mother's  two  half-crowns — 
though  I  had  preserved  the  piece  of  paper  they  were  wrapped  in  :  which  was  a  precious 
saving.  When  we  went  upstairs  to  bed,  he  produced  the  whole  seven  shillings'  worth, 
and  laid  it  out  on  my  bed  in  the  moonlight,  saying — 

'  There  you  are,  young  Copperfield,  and  a  royal  spread  you  've  got.' 

I  couldn't  think  of  doing  the  honours  of  the  feast,  at  my  time  of  life,  while  he  was 
by ;  my  hand  shook  at  the  very  thought  of  it.  I  begged  him  to  do  me  the  favour  of 
presiding  ;  and  my  request  being  seconded  by  the  other  boys  who  were  in  that  room, 
he  acceded  to  it,  and  sat  upon  my  pillow,  handing  round  the  viands — with  perfect 
fairness,  I  must  say — and  dispensing  the  currant  wine  in  a  little  glass  without  a  foot, 
which  was  his  own  property.  As  to  me,  I  sat  on  his  left  hand,  and  the  rest  were 
grouped  about  us,  on  the  nearest  beds  and  on  the  floor. 

How  well  I  recollect  our  sitting  there,  talking  in  whispers  ;  or  their  talking,  and 
my  respectfully  listening,  I  ought  rather  to  say  ;  the  moonlight  falling  a  little  way 
into  the  room,  through  the  window,  painting  a  pale  window  on  the  floor,  and  the 
greater  part  of  us  in  shadow,  except  when  Steerforth  dipped  a  match  into  a  phosphorus- 
box,  when  he  wanted  to  look  for  anything  on  the  board,  and  shed  a  blue  glare  over  us 
that  was  gone  directly  !  A  certain  mysterious  feeling,  consequent  on  the  darkness, 
the  secrecy  of  the  revel,  and  the  whisper  in  which  everything  was  said,  steals  over  me 
again,  and  I  listen  to  all  they  tell  me  with  a  vague  feeling  of  solemnity  and  awe,  which 
makes  me  glad  that  they  are  all  so  near,  and  frightens  me  (though  I  feign  to  laugh) 
when  Traddles  pretends  to  see  a  ghost  in  the  comer. 

I  heard  all  kinds  of  things  about  the  school  and  all  belonging  to  it.  I  heard 
that  Mr.  Creakle  had  not  preferred  his  claim  to  being  a  Tartar  without  reason  ;  that  he 
was  the  sternest  and  most  severe  of  masters  ;  that  he  laid  about  him,  right  and 
left,  every  day  of  his  life,  charging  in  among  the  boys  like  a  trooper,  and  slashing  away, 
unmercifully.  That  he  knew  nothing  himself,  but  the  art  of  slashing,  being  more 
ignorant  (J.  Steerforth  said)  than  the  lowest  boy  in  the  school ;  that  he  had  been,  a 
good  many  years  ago,  a  small  hop-dealer  in  the  Borough,  and  had  taken  to  the 
schooling  business  after  being  bankrupt  in  hops,  and  making  away  with  Mrs.  Creakle's 
money.     With  a  good  deal  more  of  that  sort,  which  I  wondered  how  they  knew. 

I  heard  that  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg,  whose  name  was  Tungay,  was  an 
obstinate  barbarian  who  had  formerly  assisted  in  the  hop  business,  but  had  come  into 
the  scholastic  line  with  Mr.  Creakle,  in  consequence,  as  was  supposed  among  the  boys, 
of  his  having  broken  his  leg  in  Mr.  Creakle's  service,  and  having  done  a  deal  of  dishonest 
work  for  him,  and  knowing  his  secrets.  I  heard  that  with  the  single  exception  of 
Mr.  Creakle,  Tungay  considered  the  whole  establishment,  masters  and  boys,  as  his 
natural  enemies,  and  that  the  only  delight  of  his  life  was  to  be  sour  and  malicious. 
I  heard  that  Mr.  Creakle  had  a  son,  who  had  not  been  Tungay's  friend,  and  who, 
assisting  in  the  school,  had  once  held  some  remonstrance  with  his  father  on  an  occasion 
when  its  discipline  was  very  cruelly  exercised,  and  was  supposed,  besides,  to  have 
protested  against  his  father's  usage  of  his  mother.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Creakle  had 
turned  him  out  of  doors,  in  consequence,  and  that  Mrs.  and  Miss  Creakle  had  been  in 
a  sad  way  ever  since. 

But  the  greatest  wonder  that  I  heard  of  Mr.  Creakle  was,  there  being  one  boy  in 
the  school  on  whom  he  never  ventured  to  lay  a  hand,  and  that  boy  being  J.  Steerforth. 
Steerforth  himself  confirmed  this  when  it  was  stated,  and  said  that  he  should  like  to 
begin  to  see  him  do  it.     On  being  asked  by  a  mild  boy  (not  me)  how  he  would  proceed 


I  ENLARGE  MY  CIRCLE  OF  ACQUAINTANCE        57 

if  he  did  begin  to  sec  him  do  it,  he  di])[)C(l  a  match  into  his  phosphorus-box  on  puqjose 
to  shed  a  glare  over  his  reply,  and  said  he  would  commence  by  knocking  him  dovrn 
with  a  blow  on  the  forehead  from  the  sevcn-and-sixpcimy  ink-bottle  that  was  always 
on  the  mantelpiece.     We  sat  in  the  dark  for  some  time,  breathless. 

I  heard  that  Mr.  Sharp  and  Mr.  Mell  were  both  supposed  to  be  wretchedly  paid  ; 
and  that  when  there  was  hot  and  cold  meat  for  dinner  at  Mr.  Creakle's  table,  Mr.  Sharp 
was  always  expected  to  say  he  preferred  cold  ;  which  was  again  corroborated  by 
J.  Steerforth,  the  only  parlour-boarder.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Sharp's  wig  didn't  fit  him  ; 
and  that  he  needn't  be  so  '  bounceable  ' — somebody  else  said  '  bumptious  ' — about  it, 
because  his  own  red  hair  was  very  plainly  to  be  seen  behind. 

I  heard  that  one  boy,  who  was  a  coal-merchant's  son,  came  as  a  set-off  against 
the  coal-bill,  and  was  called,  on  that  account,  '  Exchange  or  Barter  ' — a  name  selected 
from  the  arithmetic-book  as  expressing  this  arrangement.  I  heard  that  the  table- 
beer  was  a  robbery  of  parents,  and  the  pudding  an  imposition.  I  heard  that  Miss 
Creakle  was  regarded  by  the  school  in  general  as  being  in  love  with  Steerforth  ;  and 
I  am  sure,  as  I  sat  in  the  dark,  thinking  of  his  nice  voice,  and  his  fine  face,  and  his  easy 
manner,  and  his  curling  hair,  I  thought  it  very  likely.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Mell  was  not 
a  bad  sort  of  fellow,  but  hadn't  a  sixpence  to  bless  himself  with  ;  and  that  there  was 
no  doubt  that  old  Mrs.  McU,  his  mother,  was  as  poor  as  Job.  I  thought  of  my  break- 
fast then,  and  what  had  sounded  like  '  My  Charley  !  '  but  I  was,  I  am  glad  to  remember, 
as  mute  as  a  mouse  about  it. 

The  hearing  of  all  this,  and  a  good  deal  more,  outlasted  the  banquet  some  time. 
The  greater  part  of  the  guests  had  gone  to  bed  as  soon  as  the  eating  and  drinking  were 
over ;  and  we,  who  had  remained  whispering  and  listening  half  undressed,  at  last 
betook  ourselves  to  bed,  too. 

'  Good  night,  young  Copperfield,'  said  Steerforth.     '  I  '11  take  care  of  you.' 

'  You  're  very  kind,'  I  gratefully  returned.     '  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.' 

'  You  haven't  got  a  sister,  have  you  ?  '  said  Steerforth,  yawning. 

'  No,'  I  answered. 

'  That 's  a  pity,'  said  Steerforth.  '  If  you  had  had  one,  I  should  think  she  would 
have  been  a  pretty,  timid,  little,  bright-eyed  sort  of  girl.  I  should  have  liked  to  know 
her.     Good  night,  young  Copperfield.' 

'  Good  night,  sir,'  I  replied. 

I  thought  of  him  very  much  after  I  went  to  bed,  and  raised  myself,  I  recollect,  to 
look  at  him  where  he  lay  in  the  moonlight,  with  his  handsome  face  turned  up,  and  his 
head  reclining  easily  on  his  arm.  He  was  a  person  of  great  power  in  my  eyes  ;  that 
was,  of  course,  the  reason  of  my  mind  running  on  him.  No  veiled  future  dimly  glanced 
upon  him  in  the  moonbeams.  There  was  no  shadowy  picture  of  his  footsteps,  in  the 
garden  that  I  dreamed  of  walking  in  all  night. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MY    '  FIRST    HALF '    AT    SALEM    HOUSE 

SCHOOL  began  in  earnest  next  day.  A  profound  impression  was  made  upon 
me,  I  remember,  by  the  roar  of  voices  in  the  schoolroom  suddenly  becoming 
hushed  as  death  when  Mr.  Creakle  entered  after  breakfast,  and  stood  in 
the  doorway  looking  round  upon  us  like  a  giant  in  a  story-book  surveying 
his  captives. 

Tungay  stood  at  Mr.  Creakle's  elbow.  He  had  no  occasion,  I  thought,  to  cry  out 
'  Silence  !  '  so  ferociously,  for  the  boys  were  all  struck  speechless  and  motionless. 

Mr,  Creakle  was  seen  to  speak,  and  Tungay  was  heard,  to  this  effect. 

'  Now,  boys,  this  is  a  new  half.  Take  care  what  you  're  about,  in  this  new  half. 
Come  fresh  up  to  the  lessons,  I  advise  you,  for  I  come  fresh  up  to  the  punishment. 
I  won't  flinch.  It  will  be  of  no  use  your  rubbing  yourselves  ;  you  won't  rub  the  marks 
out  that  I  shall  give  you.     Now  get  to  work,  every  boy  ! ' 

When  this  dreadful  exordium  was  over,  and  Tungay  had  stumped  out  again,  Mr. 
Creakle  came  to  where  I  sat,  and  told  me  that  if  I  were  famous  for  biting,  he  was 
famous  for  biting,  too.  He  then  showed  me  the  cane,  and  asked  me  what  I  thought  of 
that,  for  a  tooth  ?  Was  it  a  sharp  tooth,  hey  ?  Was  it  a  double  tooth,  hey  ?  Had  it 
a  deep  prong,  hey  ?  Did  it  bite,  hey  ?  Did  it  bite  ?  At  every  question  he  gave  me 
a  fleshy  cut  with  it  that  made  me  writhe  ;  so  I  was  very  soon  made  free  of  Salem 
House  (as  Steerforth  said),  and  was  very  soon  in  tears  also. 

Not  that  I  mean  to  say  these  were  special  marks  of  distinction,  which  only  I 
received.  On  the  contrary,  a  large  majority  of  the  boys  (especially  the  smaller  ones) 
were  visited  with  similar  instances  of  notice,  as  Mr.  Creakle  made  the  round  of  the 
schoolroom.  Half  the  establishment  was  writhing  and  crying,  before  the  day's  work 
began  ;  and  how  much  of  it  had  writhed  and  cried  before  the  day's  work  was  over, 
I  am  really  afraid  to  recollect,  lest  I  should  seem  to  exaggerate. 

I  should  think  there  never  can  have  been  a  man  who  enjoyed  his  profession  more 
than  Mr.  Creakle  did.  He  had  a  delight  in  cutting  at  the  boys,  which  was  like  the 
satisfaction  of  a  craving  appetite.  I  am  confident  that  he  couldn't  resist  a  chubby 
boy,  especially  ;  that  there  was  a  fascination  in  such  a  subject,  which  made  him 
restless  in  his  mind,  until  he  had  scored  and  marked  him  for  the  day.  I  was  chubby 
myself,  and  ought  to  know.  I  am  sure  when  I  think  of  the  fellow  now,  my  blood  rises 
against  him  with  the  disinterested  indignation  I  should  feel  if  I  could  have  known  all 
about  him  without  having  ever  been  in  his  power  ;  but  it  rises  hotly,  because  I  know 
him  to  have  been  an  incapable  brute,  who  had  no  more  right  to  be  possessed  of  the 
great  trust  he  held,  than  to  be  Lord  High  Admiral,  or  Commander-in-Chief — in  either 
of  which  capacities,  it  is  probable,  that  he  would  have  done  infinitely  less  mischief. 

Miserable  little  propitiators  of  a  remorseless  idol,  how  abject  we  were  to  him  ! 
What  a  launch  in  life  I  think  it  now,  on  looking  back,  to  be  so  mean  and  servile  to  a 
man  of  such  parts  and  pretensions  ! 

Here  I  sit  at  the  desk  again,  watching  his  eye — humbly  watching  his  eye,  as  he 
rules  a  ciphering-book  for  another  victim  whose  hands  have  just  been  flattened  by  that 


MY  'FIRST  HALF'  AT  SALEM  HOUSE  so 

identical  niler,  and  who  is  tryinp  to  wipe  the  stinq  out  with  a  pocket-handkerchief. 
I  have  plenty  to  do.  I  don't  watch  liis  eye  in  idleness,  but  because  I  am  morbidly 
attracted  to  it,  in  a  dread  desire  to  know  what  he  will  do  next,  and  whether  it  will 
be  my  turn  to  suffer,  or  somebody  else's.  A  lane  of  small  boys  beyond  me,  with  the 
same  interest  in  his  eye,  watch  it  too.  I  think  he  knows  it,  though  he  pretends  he  don't. 
He  makes  dreadful  mouths  as  he  rules  the  ciphering-book  ;  and  now  he  throws  his  eye 
sideways  down  our  lane,  and  we  all  droop  over  our  books  and  tremble.  A  moment 
afterwards  we  are  again  eyeing  him.  An  unhappy  culprit,  found  guilty  of  imperfect 
exercise,  approaches  at  his  command.  The  culprit  falters  excuses,  and  professes  a 
determination  to  do  better  to-morrow.  Mr.  Crcakle  cuts  a  joke  before  he  beats  him, 
and  we  laugh  at  it,^ — miserable  little  dogs,  we  laugh,  with  our  visages  as  white  as  ashes, 
and  our  hearts  sinking  into  our  boots. 

Here  I  sit  at  the  desk  again,  on  a  drowsy  summer  afternoon.  A  buzz  and  hum 
go  up  around  me,  as  if  the  boys  were  so  many  bluebottles.  A  cloggy  sensation  of  the 
lukewarm  fat  of  meat  is  upon  me  (we  dined  an  hour  or  two  ago),  and  my  head  is  as 
heavy  as  so  much  lead.  I  would  give  the  world  to  go  to  sleep.  I  sit  with  my  eye  on 
Mr.  Creakle,  blinking  at  him  like  a  young  owl  ;  when  sleep  overpowers  me  for  a  minute, 
he  still  looms  through  my  slumber,  ruling  those  ciphering-books,  until  he  softly  comes 
behind  me  and  wakes  me  to  plainer  perception  of  him,  with  a  red  ridge  across  my  back. 

Here  I  am  in  the  playground,  with  my  eye  still  fascinated  by  him,  though  I  can't 
see  him.  The  window  at  a  little  distance  from  which  I  know  he  is  having  his  dinner, 
stands  for  him,  and  I  eye  that  instead.  If  he  shows  his  face  near  it,  mine  assumes 
an  imploring  and  submissive  expression.  If  he  looks  out  through  the  glass,  the  boldest 
boy  (Steerforth  excepted)  stops  in  the  middle  of  a  shout  or  yell,  and  becomes  con- 
templative. One  day,  Traddlcs  (the  most  imfortunate  boy  in  the  world)  breaks  that 
window  accidentally  with  a  ball.  I  shudder  at  this  moment  with  the  tremendous 
sensation  of  seeing  it  done,  and  feeling  that  the  ball  has  bounded  on  to  Mr.  Creakle's 
sacred  head. 

Poor  Traddles  !  In  a  tight  sky-blue  suit  that  made  his  arms  and  legs  like  German 
sausages,  or  roly-poly  puddings,  he  Avas  the  merriest  and  most  miserable  of  all  the  boys. 
He  was  always  being  caned — I  think  he  was  caned  every  day  that  half-year,  except  one 
holiday  Monday  when  he  was  only  ruler'd  on  both  hands — and  was  always  going  to 
write  to  his  uncle  about  it,  and  never  did.  After  laying  his  head  on  the  desk  for  a  little 
while,  he  would  cheer  up  somehow,  begin  to  laugh  again,  and  draw  skeletons  all  over 
his  slate,  before  his  eyes  were  dry.  I  used  at  first  to  wonder  what  comfort  Traddles 
found  in  drawing  skeletons  ;  and  for  some  time  looked  upon  him  as  a  sort  of  hermit, 
who  reminded  himself  by  those  symbols  of  mortality  that  caning  couldn't  last  for  ever. 
But  I  believe  he  only  did  it  because  they  were  easy,  and  didn't  want  any  features. 

He  was  very  honourable,  Traddles  was,  and  held  it  as  a  solemn  duty  in  the  boys 
to  stand  by  one  another.  He  suffered  for  this  on  several  occasions  ;  and  particularly 
once,  when  Steerforth  laughed  in  church,  and  the  beadle  thought  it  was  Traddles,  and 
took  him  out.  I  see  him  now,  going  away  in  custody,  despised  by  the  congregation. 
He  never  said  who  was  the  real  offender,  though  he  smarted  for  it  next  day,  and  was 
imprisoned  so  many  hours  that  he  came  forth  with  a  whole  churchyardful  of  skeletons 
swarming  all  over  his  Latin  Dictionary.  But  he  had  his  reward.  Steerforth  said  there 
was  nothing  of  the  sneak  in  Traddles,  and  we  all  felt  that  to  be  the  highest  praise. 
For  my  part,  I  could  have  gone  through  a  good  deal  (though  I  was  much  less  brave 
than  Traddles,  and  nothing  like  so  old)  to  have  won  such  a  recompense. 


60  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

To  see  Steerforth  walk  to  church  before  us,  arm-in-arm  with  Miss  Creakle,  was  one 
of  the  great  sights  of  my  Hfe.  I  didn't  think  Miss  Creakle  equal  to  little  Em'ly  in  point 
of  beauty,  and  I  didn't  love  her  (I  didn't  dare)  ;  but  I  thought  her  a  young  lady 
of  extraordinary  attractions,  and  in  point  of  gentility  not  to  be  surpassed.  When 
Steerforth,  in  white  trousers,  carried  her  parasol  for  her,  I  felt  proud  to  know  him  ; 
and  believed  that  she  could  not  choose  but  adore  him  with  all  her  heart.  Mr.  Sharp 
and  Mr.  Mell  were  both  notable  personages  in  my  eye  ;  but  Steerforth  was  to  them 
what  the  sun  was  to  two  stars. 

Steerforth  continued  his  protection  of  me,  and  proved  a  very  useful  friend,  since 
nobody  dared  to  annoy  one  whom  he  honoured  with  his  countenance.  He  couldn't — 
or  at  all  events  he  didn't — defend  me  from  Mr.  Creakle,  who  was  very  severe  with 
me  ;  but  whenever  I  had  been  treated  worse  than  usual,  he  always  told  me  that  I 
wanted  a  little  of  his  pluck,  and  that  he  wouldn't  have  stood  it  himself  ;  which  I  felt  he 
intended  for  encouragement,  and  considered  to  be  very  kind  of  him.  There  was  one 
advantage,  and  only  one  that  I  know  of,  in  Mr.  Creakle's  severity.  He  found  my 
placard  in  his  way  when  he  came  up  or  down  the  form  behind  on  which  I  sat,  and 
wanted  to  make  a  cut  at  me  in  passing  ;  for  this  reason  it  was  soon  taken  off,  and  I  saw 
it  no  more. 

An  accidental  circumstance  cemented  the  intimacy  between  Steerforth  and  me, 
in  a  manner  that  inspired  me  with  great  pride  and  satisfaction,  though  it  sometimes 
led  to  inconvenience.  It  happened  on  one  occasion,  when  he  was  doing  me  the  honour 
of  talking  to  me  in  the  playground,  that  I  hazarded  the  observation  that  something 
or  somebody — I  forget  what  now — was  like  something  or  somebody  in  Peregrine  Pickle. 
He  said  nothing  at  the  time  ;  but  when  I  was  going  to  bed  at  night,  asked  me  if  I  had 
got  that  book  ? 

I  told  him  no,  and  explained  how  it  was  that  I  had  read  it,  and  all  those  other 
books  of  which  I  have  made  mention. 

'  And  do  you  recollect  them  ?  '  Steerforth  said. 

Oh,  yes,  I  replied  ;  I  had  a  good  memory,  and  I  believed  I  recollected  them 
very  well. 

'  Then  I  tell  you  what,  young  Copperfield,'  said  Steerforth, '  you  shall  tell  'em  to  me. 
I  can't  get  to  sleep  very  early  at  night,  and  I  generally  wake  rather  early  in  the  morning. 
We  '11  go  over  'em  one  after  another.     We  '11  make  some  regular  Arabian  Nights  of  it.' 

I  felt  extremely  flattered  by  this  arrangement,  and  we  commenced  carrying  it  into 
execution  that  very  evening.  What  ravages  I  committed  on  my  favourite  authors  in 
the  course  of  my  interpretation  of  them,  I  am  not  in  a  condition  to  say,  and  should  be 
very  unwilling  to  know  ;  but  I  had  a  profound  faith  in  them,  and  I  had,  to  the  best 
of  my  belief,  a  simple  earnest  manner  of  narrating  what  I  did  narrate  ;  and  these 
qualities  went  a  long  way. 

The  drawback  was,  that  I  was  often  sleepy  at  night,  or  out  of  spirits  and  indisposed 
to  resume  the  story,  and  then  it  was  rather  hard  work,  and  it  must  be  done  ;  for  to 
disappoint  or  to  displease  Steerforth  was  of  course  out  of  the  question.  In  the  morning 
too,  when  I  felt  weary,  and  should  have  enjoyed  another  hour's  repose  very  much,  it 
was  a  tiresome  thing  to  be  roused,  like  the  Sultana  Scheherazade,  and  forced  into  a 
long  story  before  the  getting-up  bell  rang ;  but  Steerforth  was  resolute  ;  and  as  he 
explained  to  me,  in  return,  my  sums  and  exercises,  and  anything  in  my  tasks  that  was 
too  hard  for  me,  I  was  no  loser  by  the  transaction.  Let  me  do  myself  justice,  how- 
ever.    I  was  moved  by  no  interested  or  selfish  motive,  nor  was  I  moved  by  fear  of  him. 


MY  'FIR8T  HALF'  AT  SALEM   HOUSE  61 

I  admired  and  loved  him,  and  his  approval  was  return  en()iij,'li.     ll  was  so  precious 
to  me,  that  I  look  back  on  these  trifles,  now,  with  an  aching  heart. 

Steerforth  was  considerate  too,  and  showed  his  consideration,  in  one  particular 
instance,  in  an  unflinching  manner  that  was  a  little  tantalising,  I  suspect,  to  poor 
Traddles  and  the  rest.  Peggotty's  promised  letter — what  a  comfortable  letter  it  was  ! 
— arrived  before  '  the  half '  was  many  weeks  old,  and  with  it  a  cake  in  a  perfect  nest  of 
oranges,  and  two  bottles  of  cowslip  wine.  This  treasure,  as  in  duty  bound,  I  laid  at 
the  feet  of  Steerforth,  and  begged  him  to  dispense. 

'  Now,  I  '11  tell  you  what,  young  Coppcrfield,'  said  he  :  '  the  wine  shall  be  kept 
to  wet  your  whistle  when  you  are  story-telling.' 

I  blushed  at  the  idea,  and  begged  him,  in  my  modesty,  not  to  think  of  it.  But  he 
said  he  had  observed  I  was  sometimes  hoarse — a  little  roopy  was  his  exact  expression — 
and  it  should  be,  every  drop,  devoted  to  the  purpose  lie  had  mentioned.  Accordingly, 
it  was  locked  up  in  his  box,  and  drawn  off  by  himself  in  a  phial,  and  administered  to 
me  through  a  piece  of  quill  in  the  cork,  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  in  want  of  a  restora- 
tive. Sometimes,  to  make  it  a  more  sovereign  specific,  he  was  so  kind  as  to  squeeze 
orange-juice  into  it,  or  to  stir  it  up  with  ginger,  or  dissolve  a  peppermint-drop  in  it ; 
and  although  I  cannot  assert  that  the  flavour  was  improved  by  these  experiments, 
or  that  it  was  exactly  the  compound  one  would  have  chosen  for  a  stomachic,  the  last 
thing  at  night  and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  I  drank  it  gratefully,  and  was  very 
sensible  of  his  attention. 

We  seem,  to  me,  to  have  been  months  over  Peregrine,  and  months  more  over  the 
other  stories.  The  institution  never  flagged  for  want  of  a  story,  I  am  certain,  and  the 
wine  lasted  out  almost  as  well  as  the  matter.  Poor  Traddles — I  never  think  of  that 
boy  but  with  a  strange  disposition  to  laugh,  and  with  tears  in  my  eyes — was  a  sort  of 
chorus,  in  general,  and  affected  to  be  convulsed  with  mirth  at  the  comic  parts,  and  to 
be  overcome  with  fear  when  there  was  any  passage  of  an  alarming  character  in  the 
narrative.  This  rather  put  me  out,  very  often.  It  was  a  great  jest  of  his,  I  recollect, 
to  pretend  that  he  couldn't  keep  his  teeth  from  chattering,  whenever  mention  was 
made  of  an  Alguazil  in  connection  with  the  adventures  of  Gil  Bias  ;  and  I  remember 
that  when  Gil  Bias  met  the  captain  of  the  robbers  in  Madrid,  this  unlucky  joker  counter- 
feited such  an  ague  of  terror,  that  he  was  overheard  by  Mr.  Creakle,  who  was  prowling 
about  the  passage,  and  handsomely  flogged  for  disorderly  conduct  in  the  bedroom. 

Whatever  I  had  within  me  that  was  romantic  and  dreamy,  was  encouraged  by 
so  much  story-telling  in  the  dark  ;  and  in  that  respect  the  pursuit  may  not  have 
been  very  profitable  to  me.  But  the  being  cherished  as  a  kind  of  plaj-thing 
in  my  room,  and  the  consciousness  that  this  accomplishment  of  mine  was 
bruited  about  among  the  boys,  and  attracted  a  good  deal  of  notice  to  me  though 
I  was  the  youngest  there,  stimulated  me  to  exertion.  In  a  school  carried  on  by 
sheer  cruelty,  whether  it  is  presided  over  by  a  dunce  or  not,  there  is  not  likely  to  be 
much  leanit.  I  believe  our  boys  were,  generally,  as  ignorant  a  set  as  any  schoolboys 
in  existence  ;  they  were  too  much  troubled  and  knocked  about  to  learn  ;  they  could 
no  more  do  that  to  advantage  than  any  one  can  do  anything  to  advantage  in  a  life  of 
constant  misfortune,  torment,  and  worry.  But  in  my  little  vanity,  and  Steerforth's 
help,  urged  me  on  somehow  ;  and  without  saving  me  from  much,  if  anything,  in  the 
way  of  punishment,  made  me,  for  the  time  I  was  there,  an  exception  to  the  general 
body,  insomuch  that  I  did  steadily  pick  up  some  crumbs  of  knowledge. 

In  this  I  was  much  assisted  by  Mr.  Mell,  who  had  a  liking  for  me  that  I  am  grateful 


62  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

to  remember.  It  always  gave  me  pain  to  observe  that  Steerforth  treated  him  with 
systematic  disparagement,  and  seldom  lost  an  occasion  of  wounding  his  feelings,  or 
inducing  others  to  do  so.  This  troubled  me  the  more  for  a  long  time,  because  I  had  soon 
told  Steerforth,  from  whom  I  could  no  more  keep  such  a  secret  than  I  could  keep  a 
cake  or  any  other  tangible  possession,  about  the  two  old  women  Mr.  Mell  had  taken  me 
to  see  ;  and  I  was  always  afraid  that  Steerforth  would  let  it  out,  and  twit  him  with  it. 
We  little  thought,  any  one  of  us,  I  dare  say,  when  I  ate  my  breakfast  that  first 
morning,  and  went  to  sleep  under  the  shadow  of  the  peacock's  feathers  to  the  sound 
of  the  flute,  what  consequences  would  come  of  the  introduction  into  those  almshouses 
of  my  insignificant  person.  But  the  visit  had  its  unforseen  consequences  ;  and  of  a 
serious  sort,  too,  in  their  way. 

One  day  when  Mr.  Creakle  kept  the  house  from  indisposition,  which  naturally 
diffused  a  lively  joy  through  the  school,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  the  course  of 
the  morning's  work.  The  great  relief  and  satisfaction  experienced  by  the  boys  made 
them  difficult  to  manage  ;  and  though  the  dreaded  Tungay  brought  his  wooden  leg 
in  twice  or  thrice,  and  took  notes  of  the  principal  offenders'  names,  no  great  impression 
was  made  by  it,  as  they  were  pretty  sure  of  getting  into  trouble  to-morrow,  do  what 
they  would,  and  thought  it  wise,  no  doubt,  to  enjoy  themselves  to-day. 

It  was,  properly,  a  half-holiday  ;  being  Saturday .  But  as  the  noise  in  the  play- 
ground would  have  disturbed  Mr.  Creakle,  and  the  weather  was  not  favourable  for 
going  out  walking,  we  were  ordered  into  school  in  the  afternoon,  and  set  some  lighter 
tasks  than  usual,  which  were  made  for  the  occasion.  It  was  the  day  of  the  week 
on  which  Mr.  Sharp  went  out  to  get  his  wig  curled  ;  so  Mr.  Mell,  who  always  did  the 
drudgery,  whatever  it  was,  kept  school  by  himself. 

If  I  could  associate  the  idea  of  a  bull  or  a  bear  with  any  one  so  mild  as  Mr.  Mell, 
I  should  think  of  him,  in  connection  with  that  afternoon  when  the  uproar  was  at  its 
height,  as  of  one  of  those  animals,  baited  by  a  thousand  dogs.  I  recall  him  bending 
his  aching  head,  supported  on  his  bony  hand,  over  the  book  on  his  desk,  and  wretchedly 
endeavouring  to  get  on  with  his  tiresome  work,  amidst  an  uproar  that  might  have  made 
the  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons  giddy.  Boys  started  in  and  out  of  their  places, 
playing  at  puss-in-the-comer  with  other  boys  ;  there  were  laughing  boys,  singing 
boys,  talking  boys,  dancing  boys,  howling  boys  ;  boys  shuffled  with  their  feet,  boys 
whirled  about  him,  grinning,  making  faces,  mimicking  him  behind  his  back  and  before 
his  eyes  ;  mimicking  his  poverty,  his  boots,  his  coat,  his  mother,  everything  belonging 
to  him  that  they  should  have  had  consideration  for. 

'  Silence  !  '  cried  Mr.  Mell,  suddenly  rising  up,  and  striking  his  desk  with  the 
book.  '  What  does  this  mean  ?  It 's  impossible  to  bear  it.  It 's  maddening.  How 
can  you  do  it  to  me,  boys  ?  ' 

It  was  my  book  that  he  struck  his  desk  with  ;  and  as  I  stood  beside  him,  following 
his  eye  as  it  glanced  round  the  room,  I  saw  the  boys  all  stop,  some  suddenly  surprised 
some  half  afraid,  and  some  sorry  perhaps. 

Steerforth's  place  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  school,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
long  room.  He  was  lounging  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  looked  at  Mr.  Mell  with  his  mouth  shut  up  as  if  he  were  whistling,  when  Mr.  Mell 
looked  at  him. 

'  Silence,  Mr.  Steerforth  !  '  said  Mr.  Mell. 

'  Silence  yourself,'  said  Steerforth,  turning  red.     '  Whom  are  you  talking  to  ?  ' 

'  Sit  down,'  said  Mr.  Moll. 


MY  '  F'TRST  HALF'  AT  SALEM  HOUSE  68 

'  Sit  down  yourself,'  said  Steerfortli,  '  aad  iiiiiid  your  business.' 

There  was  a  titter,  and  some  applause  ;  but  Mr.  Mell  was  so  white,  that  silence 
immediately  succeeded  ;  and  one  boy,  who  had  darted  out  behind  him  to  imitate  his 
mother  again,  changed  his  mind,  and  pretended  to  want  a  pen  mended. 

'  If  you  think,  Steerforth,'  said  Mr.  Mell,  '  that  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the 
power  you  can  establish  over  any  mind  here  ' — he  laid  his  hand,  without  considering 
what  he  did  (as  I  supposed),  ui)on  my  head — '  or  that  I  have  not  observed  you,  within  a 
few  minutes,  urging  your  juniors  on  to  every  sort  of  outrage  against  me,  you  are 
mistaken.' 

'  I  don't  give  myself  the  trouble  of  thinking  at  all  about  you,'  said  Steerforth 
coolly  ;    '  so  I  'm  not  mistaken,  as  it  happens.' 

'  And  when  you  make  use  of  your  position  of  favouritism  here,  sir,'  pursued 
Mr.  Mell,  with  his  lip  trembling  very  much,  '  to  insult  a  gentleman ■' 

'  A  what  ? — where  is  he  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

Here  somebody  cried  out,  '  Shame,  J.  Steerforth  !  Too  bad  !  '  It  was  Traddles  ; 
whom  Mr.  Mell  instantly  discomfited  by  bidding  him  hold  his  tongue. 

— '  To  insult  one  who  is  not  fortunate  in  life,  sir,  and  who  never  gave  you  the 
least  offence,  and  the  many  reasons  for  not  insulting  whom  you  are  old  enough  and  wise 
enough  to  understand,'  said  Mr.  Mell,  with  his  lip  trembling  more  and  more,  '  you 
commit  a  mean  and  base  action.  You  can  sit  down  or  stand  up  as  you  please,  sir. 
Copperfield,  go  on.' 

'  Young  Copperfield,'  said  Steerforth,  coming  forward  up  the  room,  '  stop  a  bit. 
I  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Mell,  once  for  all.  When  you  take  the  liberty  of  calling  me  mean 
or  base,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  you  are  an  impudent  beggar.  You  are  always  a 
beggar,  you  know  ;  but  when  you  do  that,  you  are  an  impudent  beggar.' 

I  am  not  clear  whether  he  was  going  to  strike  Mr.  Mell,  or  Mr.  Mell  was  going 
to  strike  him,  or  there  was  any  such  intention  on  either  side.  I  saw  a  rigidity  come 
upon  the  whole  school  as  if  they  had  been  turned  into  stone,  and  found  Mr.  Creakle  in 
the  midst  of  us,  with  Tungay  at  his  side,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Creakle  looking  in  at  the 
door  as  if  they  were  frightened.  Mr.  Mell,  with  his  elbows  on  his  desk  and  his  face 
in  his  hands,  sat,  for  some  moments,  quite  still. 

'  Mr.  Mell,'  said  Mr.  Creakle,  shaking  him  by  the  arm  ;  and  his  whisper  was  so 
audible  now,  that  Tungay  felt  it  unnecessary  to  repeat  his  words  ;  '  you  have  not 
forgotten  yourself,  I  hope  ?  ' 

'  No,  sir,  no,'  returned  the  Master,  showing  his  face  and  shaking  his  head,  and 
rubbing  his  hands  in  great  agitation.  '  No,  sir,  no.  I  have  remembered  myself,  I — 
no,  Mr.  Creakle,  I  have  not  forgotten  myself,  I — I  have  remembered  myself,  sir.  I — I 
— could  wish  you  had  remembered  me  a  little  sooner,  Mr.  Creakle.  It — it — would 
have  been  more  kind,  sir,  more  just,  sir.     It  would  have  saved  me  something,  sir.' 

Mr.  Creakle,  looking  hard  at  Mr.  Mell,  put  his  hand  on  Tungay's  shoulder,  and 
got  his  feet  upon  the  form  close  by,  and  sat  upon  the  desk.  After  still  looking  hard 
at  Mr.  Mell  from  this  throne,  as  he  shook  his  head,  and  rubbed  his  hands,  and  remained 
in  the  same  state  of  agitation,  Mr.  Creakle  turned  to  Steerforth,  and  said— 

'  Now,  sir,  as  he  don't  condescend  to  tell  me,  what  is  this  ?  ' 

Steerforth  evaded  the  question  for  a  little  while  ;  looking  in  scorn  and  anger  on 
his  opponent,  and  remaining  silent.  I  could  not  help  thinking  even  in  that  interval, 
I  remember,  what  a  noble  fellow  he  was  in  appearance,  and  how  homely  and  plain 
Mr.  Mell  looked  opposed  to  him. 


64  DAVID  COPrERFIELD 

'  What  did  he  mean  by  talking  about  favourites,  then  ?  '  said  Steerforth,  at  length. 

'  Favourites  ?  '  repeated  Mr.  Creakle,  with  the  veins  in  his  forehead  swelling 
quickly.     '  Wlio  talked  about  favourites  ?  ' 

'  He  did,'  said  Steerforth. 

'  And  pray,  what  did  you  mean  by  that,  sir  ?  '  demanded  Mr.  Creakle,  turning 
angrily  on  his  assistant. 

'  I  meant,  Mr.  Creakle,'  he  returned  in  a  low  voice,  '  as  I  said  ;  that  no  pupil  had 
a  right  to  avail  himself  of  his  position  of  favouritism  to  degrade  me.' 

'  To  degrade  you  ?  '  said  Mr.  Creakle.  '  My  stars  !  But  give  me  leave  to  ask 
you,  Mr.  What  's-your-name  '  ;  and  here  Mr.  Creakle  folded  his  arms,  cane  and  all, 
upon  his  chest,  and  made  such  a  knot  of  his  brows  that  his  little  eyes  were  hardly 
visible  below  them  ;  '  whether,  when  you  talk  about  favourites,  you  showed  proper 
respect  to  me  ?  To  me,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Creakle,  darting  his  head  at  him  suddenly,  and 
drawing  it  back  again,  '  the  principal  of  this  establishment,  and  your  employer.' 

'  It  was  not  judicious,  sir,  I  am  willing  to  admit,'  said  Mr.  Mell.  '  I  should  not 
have  done  so,  if  I  had  been  cool.' 

Here  Steerforth  struck  in. 

'  Then  he  said  I  was  mean,  and  then  he  said  I  was  base,  and  then  I  called  him 
a  beggar.  If  I  had  been  cool,  perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  called  him  a  beggar.  But  I 
did,  and  I  am  ready  to  take  the  consequences  of  it.' 

Without  considering,  perhaps,  whether  there  were  any  consequences  to  be  taken, 
I  felt  quite  in  a  glow  at  this  gallant  speech.  It  made  an  impression  on  the  boys,  too, 
for  there  was  a  low  stir  among  them,  though  no  one  spoke  a  word. 

'  I  am  surprised,  Steerforth — although  your  candour  does  you  honour,'  said  Mr. 
Creakle,  '  does  you  honour,  certainly — I  am  surprised,  Steerforth,  I  must  say,  that  you 
should  attach  such  an  epithet  to  any  person  employed  and  paid  in  Salem  House,  sir.' 

Steerforth  gave  a  short  laugh. 

'  That 's  not  an  answer,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Creakle, '  to  my  remark.  I  expect  more  than 
that  from  you,  Steerforth.' 

If  Mr.  Mell  looked  homely,  in  my  eyes,  before  the  handsome  boy,  it  would  be  quite 
impossible  to  say  how  homely  Mr.  Creakle  looked. 

'  Let  him  deny  it,'  said  Steerforth. 

'  Deny  that  he  is  a  beggar,  Steerforth  ?  '  cried  Mr.  Creakle.  '  Why,  where  does 
he  go  a  begging  ?  ' 

'  If  he  is  not  a  beggar  himself,  his  near  relation's  one,'  said  Steerforth.  '  It 's  all 
the  same.' 

He  glanced  at  me,  and  Mr.  Mell's  hand  gently  patted  me  upon  the  shoulder.  I 
looked  up  with  a  flush  upon  my  face  and  remorse  in  my  heart,  but  Mr.  Mell's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Steerforth.  He  continued  to  pat  me  kindly  on  the  shoulder,  but  he  looked 
at  him. 

'  Since  you  expect  me,  Mr.  Creakle,  to  justify  myself,'  said  Steerforth,  '  and  to 
say  what  I  mean, — what  I  have  to  say  is,  that  his  mother  lives  on  charity  in  an 
almshouse.' 

Mr.  Mell  still  looked  at  him,  and  still  patted  me  kindly  on  the  shoulder,  and  said 
to  himself  in  a  whisper,  if  I  heard  right,  '  Yes,  I  thought  so.' 

Mr.  Creakle  turned  to  his  assistant,  with  a  severe  frown  and  laboured  politeness — 

'  Now  you  hear  what  this  gentleman  says,  Mr.  Mell.  Have  the  goodness,  if  you 
please,  to  set  him  right  before  the  assembled  school.' 


MTTLi':  i:m'i.v    \M)  r 

"I'he  days  sported  by  us,  as  if  Time  hiid  not  grown  up  himself  yet,  but 
were  a  child  too,  and  always  at.  play.'  {Page  2i) 


J7-  vt,v-»s*!vj»r' 


J 


T 


MY  'JIKST  HALF    AT  SALEM   HOUSE  65 

'  He  is  right,  sir,  without  correction,'  returned  Mr.  Meil,  in  the  midst  of  a  dread 
silence  ;    '  what  he  has  said  is  true.' 

'  Be  so  good  then  as  declare  publicly,  will  you,'  said  Mr.  Creakle,  putting  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  rolling  his  eyes  round  the  school,  '  whether  it  ever  came  to  my  know- 
ledge until  this  moment  ?  ' 

'  I  believe  not  directly,'  he  returned. 

'  Why,  you  know  not,'  said  Mr.  Creakle.     '  Don't  you,  man  ?  ' 

'  I  apprehend  you  never  supposed  my  worldly  circumstances  to  be  very  good,' 
replied  the  assistant.     '  You  know  what  my  position  is,  and  always  has  been  here.' 

'  I  apprehend,  if  you  come  to  that,'  said  Mr.  Creakle,  with  his  veins  swelling 
again  bigger  than  ever,  '  that  you  've  been  in  a  wrong  position  altogether,  and  mistook 
this  for  a  charity  school.     Mr.  Mell,  we  '11  part,  if  you  please.     The  sooner  the  better.' 

'  There  is  no  time,'  answered  Mr.  Mell,  rising,  '  like  the  present.' 

'  Sir,  to  you  !  '  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

'  I  take  my  leave  of  you,  Mr.  Creakle,  and  all  of  you,'  said  Mr.  Mell,  glancing  round 
the  room,  and  again  patting  me  gently  on  the  shoulder.  '  James  Steerforth,  the  best 
wish  I  can  leave  you  is  that  you  may  come  to  be  ashamed  of  what  you  have  done 
to-day.  At  present  I  would  prefer  to  see  you  anything  rather  than  a  friend,  to  me, 
or  to  any  one  in  whom  I  feel  an  interest.' 

Once  more  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder  ;  and  then  taking  his  flute  and  a 
few  books  from  his  desk,  and  leaving  the  key  in  it  for  his  successor,  he  went  out  of  the 
school,  with  his  property  under  his  arm.  Mr.  Creakle  then  made  a  speech,  through 
Tungay,  in  which  he  thanked  Steerforth  for  asserting  (though  perhaps  too  warmly) 
the  independence  and  respectability  of  Salem  House  ;  and  which  he  wound  up  by 
shaking  hands  with  Steerforth,  while  we  gave  three  cheers — I  did  not  quite  know  what 
for,  but  I  supposed  for  Steerforth,  and  so  joined  in  them  ardently,  though  I  felt 
miserable.  Mr.  Creakle  then  caned  Tommy  Traddles  for  being  discovered  in  tears, 
instead  of  cheers,  on  account  of  Mr.  Mell's  departure  ;  and  went  back  to  his  sofa,  or  his 
bed,  or  wherever  he  had  come  from. 

We  were  left  to  ourselves  now,  and  looked  very  blank,  I  recollect,  on  one  another. 
For  myself,  I  felt  so  much  self-reproach  and  contrition  for  my  part  in  what  had 
happened,  that  nothing  would  have  enabled  me  to  keep  back  my  tears  but  the  fear  that 
Steerforth,  who  often  looked  at  me,  I  saw,  might  think  it  unfriendly — or,  I  should 
rather  saj',  considering  our  relative  ages,  and  the  feeling  with  which  I  regarded  him, 
undutiful — if  I  showed  the  emotion  which  distressed  me.  He  was  very  angry  with 
Traddles,  and  said  he  was  glad  he  had  caught  it. 

Poor  Traddles,  who  had  passed  the  stage  of  lying  with  his  head  upon  the  desk, 
and  was  relieving  himself  as  usual  with  a  burst  of  skeletons,  said  he  didn't  care.  Mr. 
Mell  was  ill  used. 

'  Who  has  ill  used  him,  you  girl  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  Why,  you  have,'  returned  Traddles. 

'  What  have  I  done  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  What  have  you  done  ?  '  retorted  Traddles.  '  Hurt  Ms  feelings  and  lost  him  his 
situation.' 

'  His  feelings  !  '  repeated  Steerforth  disdainfully.  '  His  feelings  will  soon  get  the 
better  of  it,  I  '11  be  bound.  His  feelings  are  not  like  yours,  Miss  Traddles.  As  to  his 
situation — which  was  a  precious  one,  wasn't  it  ? — do  you  suppose  I  am  not  going  to 
write  home,  and  take  care  that  he  gets  some  money  ?     Polly  ?  ' 

0 


66  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

We  thought  this  intention  very  noble  in  Steerforth,  whose  mother  was  a  widow, 
and  rich,  and  would  do  almost  anything,  it  was  said,  that  he  asked  her.  We  were 
all  extremely  glad  to  see  Traddles  so  put  down,  and  exalted  Steerforth  to  the  skies  : 
especially  when  he  told  us,  as  he  condescended  to  do,  that  what  he  had  done  had  been 
done  expressly  for  us,  and  for  our  cause,  and  that  he  had  conferred  a  great  boon  upon 
us  by  unselfishly  doing  it. 

But  I  must  say  that  when  I  was  going  on  with  a  story  in  the  dark  that  night, 
Mr.  Mell's  old  flute  seemed  more  than  once  to  sound  mournfully  in  my  ears  ;  and  that 
when  at  last  Steerforth  was  tired,  and  I  lay  down  in  my  bed,  I  fancied  it  playing  so 
sorrowfully  somewhere,  that  I  was  quite  wretched. 

I  soon  forgot  him  in  the  contemplation  of  Steerforth,  who,  in  an  easy  amateur 
way,  and  without  any  book  (he  seemed  to  me  to  know  everything  by  heart),  took 
some  of  his  classes  until  a  new  master  was  found.  The  new  master  came  from  a 
grammar-school,  and  before  he  entered  on  his  duties,  dined  in  the  parlour  one  day, 
to  be  introduced  to  Steerforth.  Steerforth  approved  of  him  highly,  and  told  us  he 
was  a  brick.  Without  exactly  understanding  what  learned  distinction  was  meant 
by  this,  I  respected  him  greatly  for  it,  and  had  no  doubt  whatever  of  his  superior 
knowledge  :  though  he  never  took  the  pains  with  me — not  that  /  was  anybody — that 
Mr.  Mell  had  taken. 

There  was  only  one  other  event  in  this  half-year,  out  of  the  daily  school-life, 
that  made  an  impression  upon  me  which  still  survives.  It  survives  for  many 
reasons. 

One  afternoon,  when  we  were  all  harassed  into  a  state  of  dire  confusion,  and 
Mr.  Creakle  was  laying  about  him  dreadfully,  Tungay  came  in,  and  called  out  in  his 
usual  strong  way  :    '  Visitors  for  Copperfield  !  ' 

A  few  words  were  interchanged  between  him  and  Mr.  Creakle,  as,  who  the  visitors 
were,  and  what  room  they  were  to  be  shown  into  ;  and  then  I,  who  had,  according  to 
custom,  stood  up  on  the  announcement  being  made,  and  felt  quite  faint  with  astonish- 
ment, was  told  to  go  by  the  back-stairs  and  get  a  clean  frill  on,  before  I  repaired  to 
the  dining-room.  These  orders  I  obeyed,  in  such  a  flutter  and  hurry  of  my  young 
spirits  as  I  had  never  known  before  ;  and  when  I  got  to  the  parlour-door,  and  the 
thought  came  into  my  head  that  it  might  be  my  mother — I  had  only  thought  of  Mr.  or 
Miss  Murdstone  until  then — I  drew  back  my  hand  from  the  lock,  and  stopped  to  have 
a  sob  before  I  went  in. 

At  first  I  saw  nobody  ;  but  feeling  a  pressure  against  the  door,  I  looked  round  it, 
and  there,  to  my  amazement,  were  Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham,  ducking  at  me  with  their 
hats,  and  squeezing  one  another  against  the  wall.  I  could  not  help  laughing  ;  but  it 
was  much  more  in  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them,  than  at  the  appearance  they  made. 
W^e  shook  hands  in  a  very  cordial  way  ;  and  I  laughed  and  laughed,  until  I  pulled  out 
my  pocket-handkerchief  and  wiped  my  eyes. 

Mr  Peggotty  (who  never  shut  his  mouth  once,  I  remember,  during  the  visit)  showed 
great  concern  when  he  saw  me  do  this,  and  nudged  Ham  to  say  something. 

'  Cheer  up,  Mas'r  Davy  bor'  !  '  said  Ham,  in  his  simpering  way.  '  Why,  how  you 
have  growed  !  ' 

'  Am  I  grown  ?  '  I  said,  drying  my  eyes.  I  was  not  crying  at  anything  particular 
that  I  know  of  ;  but  somehow  it  made  me  cry,  to  see  old  friends. 

'  Growed,  Mas'r  Davy  bor'  ?     Ain't  he  growed  ?  '  said  Ham. 

'  Ain't  he  growed  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 


MY  'F^TRST   HALF'  AT  SALEM   HOUSE  fi7 

They  made  me  l;uif,'li  a(j;aiii  by  laiif^hing  at  each  other,  and  then  we  all  three 
laughed  until  I  was  in  danger  of  crying  again. 

'  Do  you  know  how  mamma  is,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  '  I  said.  '  And  how  my  dear,  dear, 
old  Peggotty  is  ?  ' 

'  Uncommon,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  And  little  Em'ly,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  ?  ' 

'  On — common,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

There  was  a  silence.  Mr.  Peggotty,  to  relieve  it,  took  two  prodigious  lobsters, 
and  an  enormous  crab,  and  a  large  canvas  bag  of  shrimps,  out  of  his  pockets,  and  piled 
them  up  in  Ham's  arms. 

'  You  see,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  knowing  as  you  was  partial  to  a  little  relish  with 
your  wittles  when  you  was  along  with  us,  we  took  the  liberty.  The  old  mawther  biled 
'em,  she  did.  Mrs.  Gummidge  biled  'em.  Yes,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  slowly,  who  I 
thought  appeared  to  stick  to  the  subject  on  account  of  having  no  other  subject  ready, 
'  Mrs.  Gummidge,  I  do  assure  you,  she  biled  'em.' 

I  expressed  my  thanks.  Mr.  Peggotty,  after  looking  at  Ham,  who  stood  smiling 
sheepishly  over  the  shell-fish,  without  making  any  attempt  to  help  him,  said — 

'  We  come,  you  see,  the  wind  and  tide  making  in  our  favour,  in  one  of  our 
Yarmouth  lugs  to  Gravesen'.  My  sister  she  wrote  to  me  the  name  of  this  here  place, 
and  wrote  to  me  as  if  ever  I  chanced  to  come  to  Gravesen',  I  was  to  come  over  and 
inquire  for  Mas'r  Davy,  and  give  her  dooty,  humbly  wishing  him  well,  and  reporting 
of  the  fam'ly  as  they  was  onconunon  toe-be-sure.  Little  Em'ly,  you  see,  she  '11  write 
to  my  sister  when  I  go  back  as  I  see  you,  and  as  you  was  similarly  oncommon,  and 
so  we  make  it  quite  a  meery-go-rounder.' 

I  was  obliged  to  consider  a  little  before  I  understood  what  Mr.  Peggotty  meant  by 
this  figure,  expressive  of  a  complete  circle  of  intelligence.  I  then  thanked  him  heartily  ; 
and  said,  with  a  consciousness  of  reddening,  that  I  supposed  little  Em'ly  was  altered 
too,  since  we  used  to  pick  up  shells  and  pebbles  on  the  beach. 

'  She  's  getting  to  be  a  woman,  that 's  wot  she  's  getting  to  be,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
'  Ask  Am.' 

He  meant  Ham,  who  beamed  with  delight  and  assent  over  the  bag  of  shrimps. 

'  Her  pretty  face  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  his  own  shining  like  a  light. 

'  Her  learning  !  '  said  Ham. 

'  Her  writing  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  Why,  it 's  as  black  as  jet !  And  so  large  it 
is,  you  might  see  it  anywheres.' 

It  was  perfectly  delightful  to  behold  with  what  enthusiasm  Mr.  Peggotty  became 
inspired  when  he  thought  of  his  little  favourite.  He  stands  before  me  again,  his  bluff 
hairy  face  irradiating  with  a  joyfxil  love  and  pride  for  which  I  can  find  no  description. 
His  honest  eyes  fire  up,  and  sparkle,  as  if  their  depths  were  stirred  by  something  bright. 
His  broad  chest  heaves  with  pleasure.  His  strong  loose  hands  clench  themselves, 
in  his  earnestness  ;  and  he  emphasises  what  he  says  with  a  right  arm  that  shows, 
in  my  pigmy  view,  like  a  sledge-hammer. 

Ham  was  quite  as  earnest  as  he.  I  dare  say  they  would  have  said  much  more  about 
her,  if  they  had  not  been  abashed  by  the  unexpected  coming  in  of  Steerforth,  who, 
seeing  me  in  a  comer  speaking  with  two  strangers,  stopped  in  a  song  he  was  singing, 
and  said — '  I  didn't  know  you  were  here,  young  Copperfield  !  '  (for  it  was  not  the 
usual  visiting  room)  and  crossed  by  us  on  his  way  out. 

I  am  not  sure  whether  it  was  in  the  pride  of  having  such  a  friend  as  Steerforth, 


68  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

or  in  the  desire  to  explain  to  him  how  I  came  to  have  such  a  friend  as  Mr.  Peggotty, 
that  I  called  to  him  as  he  was  going  away.  But  I  said,  modestly — Good  Heaven,  how 
it  all  comes  back  to  me  this  long  time  afterwards  ! — 

'  Don't  go,  Steerforth,  if  you  please.  These  are  two  Yarmouth  boatmen — very 
kind,  good  people — who  are  relations  of  my  nurse,  and  have  come  from  Gravesend 
to  see  me.' 

'  Aye,  aye  ?  '  said  Steerforth,  returning.  '  I  am  so  glad  to  see  them.  How  are 
you  both  ?  ' 

There  was  an  ease  in  his  manner — a  gay  and  light  manner  it  was,  but  not  swagger- 
ing— which  I  still  believe  to  have  borne  a  kind  of  enchantment  with  it.  I  still  believe 
him,  in  virtue  of  this  carriage,  his  animal  spirits,  his  delightful  voice,  his  handsome  face 
and  figure,  and,  for  aught  I  know,  of  some  inborn  power  of  attraction  besides  (which 
I  think  a  few  people  possess),  to  have  carried  a  spell  with  him  to  which  it  was  a  natural 
weakness  to  yield,  and  which  not  many  persons  could  withstand.  I  could  not  but  see 
how  pleased  they  were  with  him,  and  how  they  seemed  to  open  their  hearts  to  him 
in  a  moment. 

'  You  must  let  them  know  at  home,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Peggotty,'  I  said,  '  when  that 
letter  is  sent,  that  Mr.  Steerforth  is  very  kind  to  me,  and  that  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  ever  do  here  without  him.' 

'  Nonsense  !  '  said  Steerforth,  laughing.  '  You  mustn't  tell  them  anything  of 
the  sort.' 

'  And  if  Mr.  Steerforth  ever  comes  into  Norfolk  or  Suffolk,  Mr.  Peggotty,'  I  said, 
'  while  I  am  there,  you  may  depend  upon  it  I  shall  bring  him  to  Yarmouth,  if  he  will 
let  me,  to  see  your  house.  You  never  saw  such  a  good  house,  Steerforth.  It 's  made 
out  of  a  boat !  ' 

'  Made  out  of  a  boat,  is  it  ?  '  said  Steerforth.  '  It 's  the  right  sort  of  house  for 
such  a  thorough-built  boatman.' 

'  So  'tis,  sir,  so  'tis,  sir,'  said  Ham,  grinning.  '  You  're  right,  young  gen'l'm'n. 
Mas'r  Davy,  bor',  gen'l'm'n  's  right.  A  thorough-built  boatman  !  Hor,  hor  !  That 's 
what  he  is,  too  !  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty  was  no  less  pleased  than  his  nephcAv,  though  his  modesty  forbade 
him  to  claim  a  personal  compliment  so  vociferously. 

'  Well,  sir,'  he  said,  bowing  and  chuckling,  and  tucking  in  the  ends  of  his 
neckerchief  at  his  breast  :  '  I  thankee,  sir,  I  thankee  !  I  do  my  endeavours  in  my 
line  of  life,  sir.' 

'  The  best  of  men  can  do  no  more,  Mr.  Peggotty,'  said  Steerforth.  He  had  got  his 
name  already. 

'  I  '11  pound  it  it 's  wot  you  do  yourself,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  shaking  his  head, 
'  and  wot  you  do  well — right  well  !  I  thankee,  sir.  I  'm  obleeged  to  you,  sir,  for  your 
welcoming  manner  of  me.  I  'm  rough,  sir,  but  I  Vn  ready — least  ways,  I  hope  I  'm 
ready,  you  unnerstand.  My  house  ain't  much  for  to  see,  sir,  but  it 's  hearty  at  your 
service  if  ever  you  should  come  along  with  Mas'r  Davy  to  see  it.  I  'm  a  reg'lar 
Dodman,  I  am,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  by  which  he  meant  snail,  and  this  was  in  allusion 
to  his  being  slow  to  go,  for  he  had  attempted  to  go  after  every  sentence,  and  had  some- 
how or  other  come  back  again  ;   '  but  I  wish  you  both  well,  and  I  wish  you  happy  !  ' 

Ham  echoed  this  sentiment,  and  we  parted  with  them  in  the  heartiest  manner. 
I  was  almost  tempted  that  evening  to  tell  Steerforth  about  pretty  little  Em'ly,  but  I 
was  too  timid  of  mentioning  her  name,  and  too  much  afraid  of  his  laughing  at  me. 


MY   HOLIDAYS  69 

I  remember  that  1  thought  a  good  deal  and  in  an  uneasy  sort  of  way,  about  Mr.  Peggotty 
having  said  that  she  was  getting  on  to  be  a  woman  ;    but  I  decided  that  was  nonsense. 

We  transported  the  shell-fish,  or  the  '  relish  '  as  Mr.  Peggotty  had  modestly  called 
it,  up  into  our  room  unobserved,  and  made  a  great  supper  that  evening.  But  Traddles 
couldn't  get  happily  out  of  it.  He  was  too  unfortunate  even  to  come  through  a  supper 
like  anybody  else.  He  was  taken  ill  in  the  night — quite  prostrate  he  was — in  conse- 
quence of  crab  ;  and  after  being  drugged  with  black  draughts  and  blue  pills,  to  an 
extent  which  Demple  (whose  father  was  a  doctor)  said  was  enough  to  undermine  a 
horse's  constitution,  received  a  caning  and  six  chapters  of  Greek  Testament  for  refusing 
to  confess. 

The  rest  of  the  half-year  is  a  jumble  in  my  recollection  of  the  daily  strife  and 
struggle  of  our  lives  ;  of  the  waning  simimer  and  the  changing  season  :  of  the  frosty 
mornings  when  we  were  rung  out  of  bed,  and  the  cold,  cold  smell  of  the  dark  nights 
when  we  were  rung  into  bed  ;  of  the  evening  schoolroom  dimly  lighted  and  indifferently 
warmed,  and  the  morning  schoolroom  which  was  nothing  but  a  great  shivering  machine  ; 
of  the  alternation  of  boiled  beef  with  roast  beef,  and  boiled  mutton  with  roast  mutton  ; 
of  clods  of  bread-and-butter,  dog's-eared  lesson-books,  cracked  slates,  tear-blotted 
copy-books,  canings,  nilerings,  hair-cuttings,  rainy  Sundays,  suet  puddings,  and  a 
dirty  atmosphere  of  ink  surrounding  all. 

I  well  remember  though,  how  the  distant  idea  of  the  holidays,  after  seeming  for 
an  immense  time  to  be  a  stationary  speck,  began  to  come  towards  us,  and  to  grow  and 
grow.  How  from  counting  months,  we  came  to  weeks,  and  then  to  days  ;  and  how  I 
then  began  to  be  afraid  that  I  should  not  be  sent  for,  and  when  I  leamt  from  Steerforth 
that  I  had  been  sent  for  and  was  certainly  to  go  home,  had  dim  forebodings  that  I 
might  break  my  leg  first.  How  the  breaking-up  day  changed  its  place  fast,  at  last, 
from  the  week  after  next  to  next  week,  this  week,  the  day  after  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 
to-day,  to-night — when  I  was  inside  the  Yarmouth  mail,  and  going  home. 

I  had  many  a  broken  sleep  inside  the  Yarmouth  mail,  and  many  an  incoherent 
dream  of  all  these  things.  But  when  I  awoke  at  inter\-als,  the  ground  outside  the 
window  was  not  the  playground  of  Salem  House,  and  the  sound  in  my  ears  was  not  the 
sound  of  Mr.  Creakle  giving  it  to  Traddles,  but  was  the  sound  of  the  coachman  touching 
up  the  horses. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MY    HOLIDAYS.       ESPECIALLY    ONE    HAPPY    AFTERNOON 

WHEN  we  arrived  before  day  at  the  inn  where  the  mail  stopped,  which  was 
not  the  inn  where  my  friend  the  waiter  lived,  I  was  shown  up  to  a  nice 
little  bedroom,  with  Dolphin  painted  on  the  door.  Very  cold  I  was, 
I  know,  notwithstanding  the  hot  tea  they  had  given  me  before  a  large 
fire  downstairs  ;  and  very  glad  I  was  to  turn  into  the  Dolphin's  bed,  pull  the  Dolphin's 
blankets  round  my  head,  and  go  to  sleep. 

Mr.  Barkis  the  carrier  was  to  call  for  me  in  the  morning  at  nine  o'clock.  I  got  up 
at  eight,  a  little  giddy  from  the  shortness  of  my  night's  rest,  and  was  ready  for  him 
before  the  appointed  time.     He  received  me  exactly  as  if  not  five  minutes  had  elapsed 


70  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

since  we  were  last  together,  and  I  had  only  been  into  the  hotel  to  get  change^for 
sixpence,  or  something  of  that  sort. 

As  soon  as  I  and  my  box  were  in  the  cart,  and  the  carrier  was  seated,  the  lazy  horse 
walked  away  with  us  all  at  his  accustomed  pace. 

'  You  look  very  well,  Mr.  Barkis,'  I  said,  thinking  he  would  like  to  know  it. 

Mr.  Barkis  rubbed  his  cheek  with  his  cuff,  and  then  looked  at  his  cuff  as  if  he 
expected  to  find  some  of  the  bloom  upon  it ;  but  made  no  other  acknowledgment  of  the 
compliment. 

'  I  gave  your  message,  Mr.  Barkis,'  I  said  :   '  I  wrote  to  Peggotty.' 

'  Ah  !  '  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Mr.  Barkis  seemed  gruff,  and  answered  drily. 

'  Wasn't  it  right,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  '  I  asked,  after  a  little  hesitation. 

'  Why,  no,'  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

'  Not  the  message  ?  ' 

'  The  message  was  right  enough,  perhaps,'  said  Mr.  Barkis  ;  '  but  it  come  to  an 
end  there.' 

Not  understanding  what  he  meant,  I  repeated  inquisitively  :  '  Come  to  an  end, 
Mr.  Barkis  ?  ' 

'  Nothing  come  of  it,'  he  explained,  looking  at  me  sideways.     '  No  answer.' 

'  There  was  an  answer  expected,  was  there,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  '  said  I,  opening  my  eyes. 
For  this  was  a  new  light  to  me. 

'  When  a  man  says  he  's  willin','  said  Mr.  Barkis,  turning  his  glance  slowly  on  me 
again,  '  it 's  as  much  as  to  say,  that  man  's  a  waitin'  for  a  answer.' 

'  Well,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  ' 

'  Well,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  carrying  his  eyes  back  to  his  horse's  ears  ;  '  that  man  's 
been  a  waitin'  for  a  answer  ever  since.' 

'  Have  you  told  her  so,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  ' 

'  N^no,'  growled  Mr.  Barkis,  reflecting  about  it.  '  I  ain't  got  no  call  to  go  and 
tell  her  so.     I  never  said  six  words  to  her  myself.     /  ain't  a  goin'  to  tell  her  so.' 

'  Would  you  like  me  to  do  it,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  '  said  I,  doubtfully. 

'  You  might  tell  her,  if  you  would,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  with  another  slow  look  at  me, 
'  that  Barkis  was  a  waitin'  for  a  answer.     Says  you — what  name  is  it  ?  ' 

'  Her  name  ?  ' 

'  Ah  !  '  said  Mr.  Barkis,  with  a  nod  of  his  head. 

'  Peggotty.' 

'  Chrisen  name  ?     Or  nat'ral  name  ?  '  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

'  Oh,  it 's  not  her  Christian  name.     Her  Christian  name  is  Clara.' 

'  Is  it  though  ?  '  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

He  seemed  to  find  an  immense  fund  of  reflection  in  this  circumstance,  and  sat 
pondering  and  inwardly  whistling  for  some  time. 

'  Well  !  '  he  resumed  at  length.  '  Says  you,  "  Peggotty  !  Barkis  is  a  waitin'  for 
a  answer."  Says  she,  perhaps,  "  Answer  to  what  ?  "  Says  you,  "  To  what  I  told  you." 
"  What  is  that  ?  "  says  she.     "  Barkis  is  willin',"  says  you.' 

This  extremely  artful  suggestion,  Mr.  Barkis  accompanied  with  a  nudge  of  his 
elbow  that  gave  me  quite  a  stitch  in  my  side.  After  that,  he  slouched  over  his  horse 
in  his  usual  manner  ;  and  made  no  other  reference  to  the  subject  except,  half  an  hour 
afterwards,  taking  a  piece  of  chalk  from  his  pocket,  and  writing  up,  inside  the  tilt  of 
the  cart,  '  Clara  Peggotty  ' — apparently  as  a  private  memorandum. 


MY  HOLIDAYS  71 

All,  what  a  strange  feeling  it  was  to  he  going  home  when  it  was  not  homo,  and 
to  find  tliat  every  objeet  1  looked  at,  reniinded  me  of  the  happy  old  liome,  whicii  was 
like  a  dream  I  could  never  dream  again  !  The  days  when  my  mother  and  I  and 
Peggotty  were  all  in  all  to  one  another,  and  there  was  no  one  to  eome  between  us,  rose 
up  before  me  so  sorrowfully  on  the  road,  that  I  am  not  sure  I  was  glad  to  be  there — 
not  sure  but  that  I  would  rather  have  remained  away,  and  forgotten  it  in  Steerforth's 
company.  But  there  I  was  ;  and  soon  I  was  at  our  house,  where  the  bare  old 
elm-trees  wrung  their  many  hands  in  the  bleak  wintry  air,  and  shreds  of  the  old 
rooks'-nests  drifted  away  upon  the  wind. 

The  carrier  put  my  box  down  at  the  garden-gate,  and  left  me.  I  walked  along  the 
path  towards  the  house,  glancing  at  the  windows,  and  fearing  at  every  step  to  see 
Mr.  Murdstone  or  Miss  Murdstone  lowering  out  of  one  of  them.  No  face  appeared, 
however  ;  and  being  come  to  the  house,  and  knowing  how  to  open  the  door,  before  dark, 
without  knocking,  I  went  in  with  a  quiet,  timid  step. 

God  knows  how  infantine  the  memory  may  have  been,  that  was  awakened  within 
me  by  the  sound  of  my  mother's  voice  in  the  old  parlour,  when  I  set  foot  in  the  hall. 
She  was  singing  in  a  low  tone.  I  think  I  must  have  lain  in  her  arms,  and  heard  her 
singing  so  to  me  when  I  was  but  a  baby.  The  strain  was  new  to  me,  and  yet  it  was  so 
old  that  it  filled  my  heart  brimful ;  like  a  friend  come  back  from  a  long  absence. 

I  believed,  from  the  solitary  and  thoughtful  way  in  which  my  mother  murmured 
lier  song,  that  she  was  alone.  And  I  went  softly  into  the  room.  She  was  sitting  by 
the  fire,  suckling  an  infant,  whose  tiny  hand  she  held  against  her  neck.  Her  eyes 
were  looking  down  upon  its  face,  and  she  sat  singing  to  it.  I  was  so  far  right,  that 
she  had  no  other  companion. 

I  spoke  to  her,  and  she  started,  and  cried  out.  But  seeing  me,  she  called  me 
her  dear  Davy,  her  own  boy  !  and  coming  half  across  the  room  to  meet  me,  kneeled 
down  upon  the  ground  and  kissed  me,  and  laid  my  head  down  on  her  bosom  near 
the  little  creature  that  was  nestling  there,  and  put  its  hand  up  to  my  lips. 

I  wish  I  had  died.  I  wish  I  had  died  then,  with  that  feeling  in  my  heart  !  I 
sliould  have  been  more  fit  for  heaven  than  I  ever  have  been  since. 

'  He  is  your  brother,'  said  my  mother,  fondling  me.  '  Davy,  my  pretty  boy  ! 
My  poor  child  !  '  Then  she  kissed  me  more  and  more,  and  clasped  me  round  the 
neck.  This  she  was  doing  wlien  Peggotty  came  running  in,  and  bounced  down  on  the 
ground  beside  us,  and  went  mad  about  us  both  for  a  quarter  of  an  liour. 

It  seemed  that  I  had  not  been  expected  so  soon,  the  carrier  being  much  before  his 
usual  time.  It  seemed,  too,  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  had  gone  out  upon  a  visit 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  would  not  return  before  night.  I  had  never  hoped  for 
this.  I  had  never  thought  it  possible  that  we  three  could  be  together  undisturbed, 
once  more  ;  and  I  felt,  for  the  time,  as  if  the  old  days  were  come  back. 

We  dined  together  by  the  fireside.  Peggotty  was  in  attendance  to  wait  upon  us, 
but  my  mother  wouldn't  let  her  do  it,  and  made  her  dine  with  us.  I  had  my  own  old 
plate,  with  a  brown  view  of  a  man-of-war  in  full  sail  upon  it,  whicli  Peggotty  had 
hoarded  somewhere  all  the  time  I  had  been  away,  and  would  not  have  had  broken,  she 
said,  for  a  hundred  pounds.  I  had  my  own  old  mug  with  David  on  it,  and  my  own 
old  little  knife  and  fork  that  wouldn't  cut. 

While  we  were  at  table,  I  thought  it  a  favourable  occasion  to  tell  Peggotty  about 
Mr.  Barkis,  who,  before  I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  tell  her,  began  to  laugh,  and 
throw  her  apron  over  her  face. 


72  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Peggotty,'  said  my  mother.     '  What 's  the  matter  ?  ' 

Peggotty  only  laughed  the  more,  and  held  her  apron  tight  over  her  face  when  my 
mother  tried  to  pull  it  away,  and  sat  as  if  her  head  were  in  a  bag. 

'  What  are  you  doing,  you  stupid  creature  ?  '  said  my  mother,  laughing. 

'  Oh,  drat  the  man  !  '  cried  Peggotty.     '  He  wants  to  marry  me.' 

'  It  would  be  a  very  good  match  for  you  ;  wouldn't  it  ?  '  said  my  mother. 

'  Oh  !  I  don't  know,'  said  Peggotty.  '  Don't  ask  me.  I  wouldn't  have  him 
if  he  was  made  of  gold.     Nor  I  wouldn't  have  anybody.' 

'  Then,  why  don't  you  tell  him  so,  you  ridiculous  thing  ?  '  said  my  mother. 

'  Tell  him  so,'  retorted  Peggotty,  looking  out  of  her  apron.  '  He  has  never  said 
a  word  to  me  about  it.  He  knows  better.  If  he  was  to  make  so  bold  as  say  a  word 
to  me,  I  should  slap  his  face.' 

Her  own  was  as  red  as  ever  I  saw  it,  or  any  other  face,  I  think  ;  but  she  only 
covered  it  again,  for  a  few  moments  at  a  time,  when  she  was  taken  with  a  violent  fit 
of  laughter  ;    and  after  two  or  three  of  those  attacks,  went  on  with  her  dinner. 

I  remarked  that  my  mother,  though  she  smiled  when  Peggotty  looked  at  her, 
became  more  serious  and  thoughtful.  I  had  seen  at  first  that  she  was  changed.  Her 
face  was  very  pretty  still,  but  it  looked  careworn,  and  too  delicate  ;  and  her  hand  was 
so  thin  and  white  that  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  almost  transparent.  But  the  change 
to  which  I  now  refer  was  superadded  to  this  :  it  was  in  her  manner,  which  became 
anxious  and  fluttered.  At  last  she  said,  putting  out  her  hand,  and  laying  it  affec- 
tionately on  the  hand  of  her  old  servant — 

'  Peggotty,  dear,  you  are  not  going  to  be  married  ?  ' 

'  Me,  ma'am  ?  '  returned  Peggotty,  staring.     '  Lord  bless  you,  no  !  ' 

'  Not  just  yet  ?  '  said  my  mother,  tenderly. 

'  Never  !  '  cried  Peggotty. 

My  mother  took  her  hand,  and  said — 

'  Don't  leave  me,  Peggotty.  Stay  with  me.  It  will  not  be  for  long,  perhaps. 
What  should  I  ever  do  without  you  ?  ' 

'  Me  leave  you,  my  precious  !  '  cried  Peggotty.  '  Not  for  all  the  world  and  his 
wife.  "Why,  what 's  put  that  in  your  silly  little  head  ?  '  For  Peggotty  had  been 
used  of  old  to  talk  to  my  mother  sometimes,  like  a  child. 

But  my  mother  made  no  answer,  except  to  thank  her,  and  Peggotty  went  nmning 
on  in  her  own  fasliion. 

'  Me  leave  you  ?  I  think  I  see  myself.  Peggotty  go  away  from  you  ?  I  should 
like  to  catch  her  at  it  !  No,  no,  no,'  said  Peggotty,  shaking  her  head,  and  folding  her 
arms  ;  '  not  she,  my  dear.  It  isn't  that  there  ain't  some  Cats  that  would  be  well 
enough  pleased  if  she  did,  but  they  shan't  be  pleased.  They  shall  be  aggravated. 
I  '11  stay  with  you  till  I  am  a  cross  cranky  old  woman.  And  when  I  'm  too  deaf,  and 
too  lame,  and  too  blind,  and  too  mumbly  for  want  of  teeth,  to  be  of  any  use 
at  all,  even  to  be  found  fault  with,  then  I  shall  go  to  my  Davy,  and  ask  him  to  take 
me  in.' 

'  And,  Peggotty,'  says  I,  '  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you,  and  I  '11  make  you  as  welcome 
as  a  queen.' 

'  Bless  your  dear  heart  !  '  cried  Peggotty.  '  I  know  you  will  !  '  And  she  kissed 
me  beforehand,  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  my  hospitality.  After  that,  she 
covered  her  head  up  with  her  apron  again,  and  had  another  laugh  about  Mr.  Barkis. 
After  that,  she  took  the  baby  out  of  its  little  cradle,  and  nursed  it.     After  that,  she 


I 


MY  ilOLIOAYS  78 

cleared  the  dinner-table  ;   after  that,  came  in  with  another  cap  on,  and  her  work-box, 
and  the  yard-measure,  and  the  bit  of  wax-candle,  all  just  the  same  as  ever. 

We  sat  round  the  fire,  and  talked  delightfully.  I  told  them  what  a  hard  master 
Mr.  Creakle  was,  and  they  pitied  me  very  much.  I  told  them  what  a  fine  fellow 
Steerforth  was,  and  what  a  patron  of  mine,  and  Peggotty  said  she  would  walk  a  score 
of  miles  to  sec  him.  I  took  the  little  baby  in  my  arms  when  it  was  awake,  and  nursed 
it  lovingly.  When  it  was  asleep  again,  I  crept  close  to  my  mother's  side,  according 
to  my  old  custom,  broken  now  a  long  time,  and  sat  with  my  arms  embracing  her  waist, 
and  my  little  red  cheek  on  her  shoulder,  and  once  more  felt  her  beautiful  hair  drooping 
over  me — like  an  angel's  wing  as  I  used  to  think,  I  recollect — ^and  was  very  happy 
indeed. 

While  I  sat  thus,  looking  at  the  fire,  and  seeing  pictures  in  the  red-hot  coals,  I 
almost  believed  that  I  had  never  been  away  ;  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  were  such 
pictures,  and  would  vanish  when  the  fire  got  low  ;  and  that  there  was  nothing  real  in 
all  that  I  remembered,  save  my  mother,  Peggotty,  and  I. 

Peggotty  darned  away  at  a  stocking  as  long  as  she  could  see,  and  then  sat  with 
it  drawn  on  her  left  hand  like  a  glove,  and  her  needle  in  her  right,  ready  to  take  another 
stitch  whenever  there  was  a  blaze.  I  cannot  conceive  whose  stockings  they  can  have 
been  that  Peggotty  was  always  darning,  or  where  such  an  unfailing  supply  of  stockings 
in  want  of  darning  can  have  come  from.  From  my  earliest  infancy  she  seems  to 
have  been  always  employed  in  that  class  of  needlework,  and  never  by  any  chance 
in  any  other. 

'  I  wonder,'  said  Peggotty,  who  was  sometimes  seized  with  a  fit  of  wondering  on 
some  most  unexpected  topic,  '  what 's  become  of  Davy's  great-aunt  ?  ' 

'  Lor,  Peggotty  !  '  observed  my  mother,  rousing  herself  from  a  reverie,  '  what 
nonsense  you  talk  !  ' 

'  Well,  but  I  really  do  wonder,  ma'am,'  said  Peggotty. 

'  What  can  have  put  such  a  person  in  your  head  ?  '  inquired  my  mother.  '  Is 
there  nobody  else  in  the  world  to  come  there  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know  how  it  is,'  said  Peggotty,  '  unless  it 's  on  account  of  being  stupid. 
but  my  head  never  can  pick  and  choose  its  people.  They  come  and  they  go,  and 
they  don't  come  and  they  don't  go,  just  as  they  like.  I  wonder  what 's  become 
of  her  ?  ' 

'  How  absurd  you  are,  Peggotty,'  returned  my  mother.  '  One  would  suppose 
you  wanted  a  second  visit  from  her.' 

'  Lord  forbid  !  '  cried  Peggotty. 

'  Well,  then,  don't  talk  about  such  uncomfortable  things,  there  's  a  good  soul,' 
said  my  mother.  '  Miss  Betsey  is  shut  up  in  her  cottage  by  the  sea,  no  doubt,  and  will 
remain  there.     At  all  events,  she  is  not  likely  ever  to  trouble  us  again.' 

'  No  !  '  mused  Peggotty.  '  No,  that  ain't  likely  at  all — I  wonder,  if  she  was  to 
die,  whether  she  'd  leave  Davy  anything  ?  ' 

'  Good  gracious  me,  Peggotty,'  returned  my  mother,  '  what  a  nonsensical  woman 
you  are  !  when  you  know  that  she  took  offence  at  the  poor  dear  boy's  ever  being  bom 
at  all  !  ' 

'  I  suppose  she  wouldn't  be  inclined  to  forgive  him  now  ?  '  hinted  Peggotty. 

'  Why  should  she  be  inclined  to  forgive  him  now  ?  '  said  my  mother,  rather 
sharply. 

'  NoAv  that  he  's  got  a  brother,  I  mean,'  said  Peggotty. 

c2 


74  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

My  mother  immediately  began  to  cry,  and  wondered  how  Peggotty  dared  to  say 
such  a  thing. 

'  As  if  this  poor  little  innocent  in  its  cradle  had  ever  done  any  harm  to  you  or 
anybody  else,  you  jealous  thing  !  '  said  she.  '  You  had  much  better  go  and  marry 
Mr.  Barkis,  the  carrier.     Why  don't  you  ?  ' 

'  I  should  make  Miss  Murdstone  happy,  if  I  was  to,'  said  Peggotty. 

'  What  a  bad  disposition  you  have,  Peggotty  !  '  returned  my  mother.  '  You 
are  as  jealous  of  Miss  Murdstone  as  it  is  possible  for  a  ridiculous  creature  to  be.  Yo« 
want  to  keep  the  keys  yourself,  and  give  out  all  the  things,  I  suppose  ?  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  you  did.  When  you  know  that  she  only  does  it  out  of  kindness  and 
the  best  intentions  !     You  know  she  does,  Peggotty — you  know  it  well.' 

Peggotty  muttered  something  to  the  effect  of  '  Bother  the  best  intentions  !  '  and 
something  else  to  the  effect  that  there  was  a  little  too  much  of  the  best  intentions 
going  on. 

'  I  know  what  you  mean,  you  cross  thing,'  said  my  mother.  '  I  understand  you, 
Peggotty,  perfectly.  You  know  I  do,  and  I  wonder  you  don't  colour  up  like  fire. 
But  one  point  at  a  time.  Miss  Murdstone  is  the  point  now,  Peggotty,  and  you  shan't 
escape  from  it.  Haven't  you  heard  her  say,  over  and  over  again,  that  she  thinks  I 
am  too  thoughtless  and  too — a — a ' 

'  Pretty,'  suggested  Peggotty. 

*  Well,'  returned  my  mother,  half  laughing,  '  and  if  she  is  so  silly  as  to  say  so,  can 
I  be  blamed  for  it  ?  ' 

'  No  one  says  you  can,'  said  Peggotty. 

'  No,  I  should  hope  not,  indeed  !  '  returned  my  mother.  '  Haven't  you  heard 
her  say  over  and  over  again,  that  on  this  account  she  wishes  to  spare  me  a  great  deal 
of  trouble,  which  she  thinks  I  am  not  suited  for,  and  which  I  really  don't  know  myself 
that  I  am  suited  for  ;  and  isn't  she  up  early  and  late,  and  going  to  and  fro  continually — 
and  doesn't  she  do  all  sorts  of  things,  and  grope  into  all  sorts  of  places,  coal-holes  and 
pantries  and  I  don't  know  where,  that  can't  be  very  agreeable — and  do  you  mean 
to  insinuate  that  there  is  not  a  sort  of  devotion  in  that  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  insinuate  at  all,'  said  Peggotty. 

'  You  do,  Peggotty,'  returned  my  mother.  '  You  never  do  anything  else,  except 
your  work.  You  are  always  insinuating.  You  revel  in  it.  And  when  you  talk  of 
Mr.  Murdstone's  good  intentions ' 

'  I  never  talked  of  'em,'  said  Peggotty. 

'  No,  Peggotty,'  returned  my  mother,  '  but  you  insinuated.  That 's  what  I  told 
you  just  now.  That 's  the  worst  of  you.  You  will  insinuate.  I  said,  at  the  moment, 
that  I  understood  you,  and  you  see  I  did.  When  you  talk  of  Mr.  Murdstone's  good 
intentions,  and  pretend  to  slight  them  (for  I  don't  believe  you  really  do,  in  your  heart, 
Peggotty),  you  must  be  as  well  convinced  as  I  am  how  good  they  are,  and  how  they 
actuate  him  in  everything.  If  he  seems  to  have  been  at  all  stem  with  a  certain  person, 
Peggotty — you  understand,  and  so  I  am  sure  does  Davy,  that  I  am  not  alluding  to 
anybody  present — it  is  solely  because  he  is  satisfied  that  it  is  for  a  certain  person's 
benefit.  He  naturally  loves  a  certain  person,  on  my  account ;  and  acts  solely  for  a 
certain  person's  good.  He  is  better  able  to  judge  of  it  than  I  am  ;  for  I  very  well  know 
that  I  am  a  weak,  light,  girlish  creature,  and  that  he  is  a  firm,  grave,  serious  man. 
And  he  takes,'  said  my  mother,  with  the  tears  which  were  engendered  in  her  affectionate 
nature,  stealing  down  her  face,  '  he  takes  great  pains  with  me  ;  and  I  ought  to  be  very 


MY  HOLIDAYS  75 

thankful  to  him,  and  very  submissive  to  him  even  in  my  thouj^'lits  ;  and  when  I  am 
not,  Pcggotty,  I  worry  and  condemn  myself,  and  feel  doubtful  of  my  own  iieart,  and 
don't  know  what  to  do.' 

Pefjgotty  sat  with  hor  ehin  on  the  foot  of  the  stoekinj;,  lookinfj  silently  at  the  fire. 

'  There,  I'cggotty,'  said  my  mother,  ehanging  her  tone,  '  don't  let  us  fall  out  with 
one  another,  for  I  couldn't  bear  it.  You  are  my  true  friend,  I  know,  if  I  have  any  in 
the  world.  When  I  call  you  a  ridiculous  creature,  or  a  vexatious  thing,  or  anything 
of  that  sort,  l*eggotty,  I  only  mean  that  you  are  my  true  friend,  and  always  have 
been,  ever  since  the  night  when  Mr.  Copperfield  first  brought  me  home  here,  and  you 
came  out  to  the  gate  to  meet  me.' 

Peggotty  was  not  slow  to  respond,  and  ratify  the  treaty  of  friendship  by  giving 
me  one  of  her  best  hugs.  I  think  I  had  some  glimpses  of  the  real  character  of  this 
conversation  at  the  time  ;  but  I  am  sure,  now,  that  the  good  creature  originated  it, 
and  took  her  part  in  it,  merely  that  my  mother  might  comfort  herself  with  the  little 
contradictory  summary  in  which  she  had  indulged.  The  design  was  efficacious  ;  for 
I  remember  that  my  mother  seemed  more  at  ease  during  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and 
that  Peggotty  observed  her  less. 

When  we  had  had  our  tea,  and  the  ashes  were  thrown  up,  and  the  candles  snuffed, 
I  read  Peggotty  a  chapter  out  of  the  crocodile-book,  in  remembrance  of  old  times — she 
took  it  out  of  her  pocket  :  I  don't  know  whether  she  had  kept  it  there  ever  since — 
and  then  we  talked  about  Salem  House,  which  brought  me  round  again  to  Steerforth, 
who  was  my  great  subject.  We  were  very  happy  ;  and  that  evening,  as  the  last  of 
its  race,  and  destined  evermore  to  close  that  volume  of  my  life,  will  never  pass  out  of 
my  memory. 

It  was  almost  ten  o'clock  before  we  heard  the  sound  of  wheels.  We  all  got  up 
then  ;  and  my  mother  said  hurriedly  that,  as  it  was  so  late,  and  Mr.  and  Miss 
Murdstone  approved  of  early  hours  for  young  peojile,  ])erhaps  I  had  better  go  to  bed. 
I  kissed  her,  and  went  upstairs  with  my  candle  directly,  before  they  came  in.  It 
appeared  to  my  childish  fancy,  as  I  ascended  to  the  bedroom  where  I  had  been 
imprisoned,  that  they  brought  a  cold  blast  of  air  into  the  house  which  blew  away  the 
old  familiar  feeling  like  a  feather. 

I  felt  uncomfortable  about  going  down  to  breakfast  in  the  morning,  as  I  had  never 
set  eyes  on  Mr.  Murdstone  since  the  day  when  I  committed  my  memorable  offence. 
However,  as  it  must  be  done,  I  went  down,  after  two  or  three  false  starts  half-way,  and 
as  many  runs  back  on  tiptoe  to  my  own  room,  and  presented  myself  in  the  parlour. 

He  was  standing  before  the  fire  with  his  back  to  it,  while  Miss  Murdstone  made 
the  tea.  He  looked  at  me  steadily  as  I  entered,  but  made  no  sign  of  recognition 
whatever. 

I  went  up  to  him,  after  a  moment  of  confusion,  and  said — '  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir.     I  am  very  sorry  for  what  I  did,  and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.' 

'  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  sorry,  David,'  he  replied. 

The  hand  he  gave  me  was  the  hand  I  had  bitten.  I  could  not  restrain  my  eye 
from  resting  for  an  instant  on  a  red  spot  upon  it ;  but  it  was  not  so  red  as  I  turned, 
when  I  met  that  sinister  expression  in  his  face. 

'  How  do  you  do,  ma'am  ?  '  I  said  to  Miss  Murdstone. 

'  Ah,  dear  me  !  '  sighed  Miss  Murdstone,  giving  me  the  tea-caddy  scoop  instead  of 
her  fingers.     '  How  long  are  the  holidays  ?  ' 

'  A  month,  ma'am.' 


76  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Counting  from  when  ?  ' 

'  From  to-day,  ma'am.' 

'  Oh  !  '  said  Miss  Murdstone.     '  Then  here  's  one  day  off.' 

She  kept  a  calendar  of  the  holidays  in  this  way,  and  every  morning  checked  a  day 
off  in  exactly  the  same  manner.  She  did  it  gloomily  until  she  came  to  ten,  but  when  she 
got  into  two  figures  she  became  more  hopeful,  and,  as  the  time  advanced,  even  jocular. 

It  was  on  this  very  first  day  that  I  had  the  misfortune  to  throw  her,  though  she 
was  not  subject  to  such  weakness  in  general,  into  a  state  of  violent  consternation.  I 
came  into  the  room  where  she  and  my  mother  were  sitting ;  and  the  baby  (who  was 
only  a  few  weeks  old)  being  on  my  mother's  lap,  I  took  it  very  carefully  in  my  arms. 
Suddenly  Miss  Murdstone  gave  such  a  scream  that  I  all  but  dropped  it. 

'  My  dear  Jane  !  '  cried  my  mother. 

'  Good  Heavens,  Clara,  do  you  see  ?  '  exclaimed  Miss  Murdstone. 

'  See  what,  my  dear  Jane  ?  '  said  my  mother  ;    '  where  ?  ' 

'  He  's  go  it  !  '  cried  Miss  Murdstone.     '  The  boy  has  got  the  baby  !  ' 

She  was  limp  with  horror  ;  but  stiffened  herself  to  make  a  dart  at  me,  and  take 
it  out  of  my  arms.  Then,  she  turned  faint ;  and  was  so  very  ill,  that  they  were  obliged 
to  give  her  cherry-brandy.  I  was  solemnly  interdicted  by  her,  on  her  recovery,  from 
touching  my  brother  any  more  on  any  pretence  whatever  ;  and  my  poor  mother,  who, 
I  could  see,  wished  otherwise,  meekly  confirmed  the  interdict,  by  saying,  '  No  doubt 
you  are  right,  my  dear  Jane.' 

On  another  occasion,  when  we  three  were  together,  this  same  dear  baby — it  was 
truly  dear  to  me,  for  our  mother's  sake — was  the  innocent  occasion  of  Miss  Murdstone's 
going  into  a  passion.  My  mother,  who  had  been  looking  at  its  eyes  as  it  lay  upon  her 
lap,  said — 

'  Davy  !   come  here  !  '  and  looked  at  mine. 

I  saw  Miss  Murdstone  lay  her  beads  down. 

'  I  declare,'  said  my  mother,  gently,  '  they  are  exactly  alike.  I  suppose  they  are 
mine.     I  think  they  are  the  colour  of  mine.     But  they  are  wonderfully  alike.' 

'  What  are  you  talking  about,  Clara  ?  '  said  Miss  Murdstone. 

'  My  dear  Jane,'  faltered  my  mother,  a  little  abashed  by  the  harsh  tone  of  this 
inquiry,  '  I  find  that  the  baby's  eyes  and  Davy's  are  exactly  alike.' 

'  Clara  !  '  said  Miss  Murdstone,  rising  angrily,  '  you  are  a  positive  fool  sometimes.' 

'  My  dear  Jane,'  remonstrated  my  mother. 

'  A  positive  fool,'  said  Miss  Murdstone.  '  Who  else  could  compare  my  brother's  baby 
with  your  boy  ?  They  are  not  at  all  alike.  They  are  exactly  unlike.  They  are  utterly 
dissimilar  in  all  respects.  I  hope  they  will  ever  remain  so.  I  will  not  sit  here,  and  hear 
such  comparisons  made.'    With  that  she  stalked  out,  and  made  the  door  bang  after  her. 

In  short,  I  was  not  a  favourite  with  Miss  Murdstone.  In  short,  I  was  not  a 
favourite  there  with  anybody,  not  even  with  myself ;  for  those  who  did  like  me 
could  not  show  it,  and  those  who  did  not  showed  it  so  plainly  that  I  had  a  sensitive 
consciousness  of  always  appearing  constrained,  boorish,  and  dull. 

I  felt  that  I  made  them  as  uncomfortable  as  they  made  me.  If  I  came  into 
the  room  where  they  were,  and  they  were  talking  together  and  my  mother  seemed 
cheerful,  an  anxious  cloud  would  steal  over  her  face  from  the  moment  of  my  entrance. 
If  Mr.  Murdstone  were  in  his  best  humour,  I  checked  him.  If  Miss  Murdstone  were 
in  her  worst,  I  intensified  it.  I  had  perception  enough  to  know  that  my  mother  was 
the  victim  always  ;    that  she  was  afraid  to  speak  to  me,  or  be  kind  to  me,  lest  she 


MY  HOLIDAYS  77 

should  pive  them  some  offence  by  her  manner  of  doinp;  so,  and  receive  a  lecture 
afterwiirds ;  that  she  was  not  only  ceaselessly  afraid  of  her  own  offending;,  but  of  my 
f)ffending,  and  uneasily  watched  their  looks  if  I  only  moved.  Therefore  I  resolved 
to  keep  myself  as  much  out  of  their  way  as  I  could  ;  and  many  a  wintry  hour  did  I  hear 
the  church-clock  strike,  when  I  was  sitting  in  n^y  cheerless  bedroom,  wrapped  in  my 
little  great-coat,  poring  over  a  book. 

In  the  evening,  sometimes,  I  went  and  sat  with  Peggotty  in  the  kitchen.  There 
I  was  comfortable,  and  not  afraid  of  being  myself.  But  neither  of  these  resources 
was  approved  of  in  the  parlour.  The  tormenting  humour  which  was  dominant  there 
stopped  them  both.  I  was  still  held  to  be  necessary  to  my  poor  mother's  training, 
and,  as  one  of  her  trials,  could  not  be  suffered  to  absent  myself. 

'  David,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  one  day  after  dinner  when  I  was  going  to  leave 
the  room  as  usual ;   '  I  am  sorry  to  observe  that  you  are  of  a  sullen  disposition.' 

'  As  sulky  as  a  bear  !  '  said  Miss  Murdstone. 

I  stood  still,  and  hung  my  head. 

'  Now,  David,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  '  a  sullen  obdurate  disposition  is,  of  all  tempers, 
the  worst.' 

'  And  the  boy's  is,  of  all  such  dispositions  that  ever  I  have  seen,'  remarked  his 
sister,  '  the  most  confirmed  and  stubborn.  I  think,  my  dear  Clara,  even  you  must 
observe  it  ?  ' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Jane,'  said  my  mother,  '  but  are  you  quite  sure — 
I  am  certain  you  '11  excuse  me,  my  dear  Jane — that  you  understand  Davy  ?  ' 

'  I  should  be  somewhat  ashamed  of  myself,  Clara,'  returned  Miss  Murdstone, 
'  if  I  could  not  understand  the  boy,  or  any  boy.  I  don't  profess  to  be  profound  ;  but 
I  do  lay  claim  to  common  sense.' 

'  No  doubt,  my  dear  Jane,'  returned  my  mother,  '  your  understanding  is  very 
vigorous.' 

'  Oh  dear,  no  !     Pray  don't  say  that,  Clara,'  interposed  Miss  Murdstone,  angrily. 

'  But  I  am  sure  it  is,'  resumed  my  mother ;  '  and  everybody  knows  it  is.  I 
profit  so  much  by  it  myself,  in  many  ways — at  least  I  ought  to — that  no  one  can  be 
more  convinced  of  it  than  myself ;  and  therefore  I  speak  with  great  diffidence,  my  dear 
Jane,  I  assure  you.' 

'  We  '11  say  I  don't  understand  the  boy,  Clara,'  returned  Miss  Murdstone,  arranging 
the  little  fetters  on  her  wrists.  '  We  '11  agree,  if  you  please,  that  I  don't  understand 
him  at  all.  He  is  much  too  deep  for  me.  But  perhaps  my  brother's  penetration  may 
enable  him  to  have  some  insight  into  his  character.  And  I  believe  my  brother  was 
speaking  on  the  subject  when  we — not  very  decently — interrupted  him.' 

'  I  think,  Clara,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  in  a  low  grave  voice,  '  that  there  may  be 
better  and  more  dispassionate  judges  of  such  a  question  than  you.' 

'  Edward,'  replied  my  mother,  timidly,  '  you  are  a  far  better  judge  of  all  questions 
than  I  pretend  to  be.     Both  you  and  Jane  are.     I  only  said ' 

'  You  only  said  something  weak  and  inconsiderate,'  he  replied.  '  Try  not  to  do 
it  again,  my  dear  Clara,  and  keep  a  watch  upon  yourself.' 

My  mother's  lips  moved,  as  if  she  answered,  '  Yes,  my  dear  Edward,'  but  she  said 
nothing  aloud. 

'  I  was  sorry,  David,  I  remarked,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  turning  his  head  and  eyes 
stiffly  towards  me,  '  to  obsers'e  that  you  are  of  a  sullen  disposition.  This  is  not  a 
character  that  I  can  suffer  to  develop  itself  beneath  my  eyes  without  an  effort    at 


7»  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

improvement.  You  must  endeavour,  sir,  to  change  it.  We  must  endeavour  to  change 
it  for  you.' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  I  faltered.  '  I  have  never  meant  to  be  sullen  since 
I  came  back.' 

'  Don't  take  refuge  in  a  lie,  sir  !  '  he  returned  so  fiercely,  that  I  saw  my  mother 
involuntarily  put  out  her  trembling  hand  as  if  to  interpose  between  us.  '  You  have 
withdrawn  yourself  in  your  suUenness  to  your  own  room.  You  have  kept  your  own 
room  when  you  ought  to  have  been  here.  You  know  now,  once  for  all,  that  I  require 
you  to  be  here,  and  not  there.  Further,  that  I  require  you  to  bring  obedience  here. 
You  know  me,  David.     I  will  have  it  done.' 

Miss  Murdstone  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle. 

'  I  will  have  a  respectful,  prompt,  and  ready  bearing  towards  myself,'  he  con- 
tinued, '  and  towards  Jane  Murdstone,  and  towards  your  mother.  I  will  not  have  this 
room  shunned  as  if  it  were  infected,  at  the  pleasure  of  a  child.     Sit  down.' 

He  ordered  me  like  a  dog,  and  I  obeyed  like  a  dog. 

'  One  thing  more,'  he  said.  '  I  observe  that  you  have  an  attachment  to  low 
and  common  company.  You  are  not  to  associate  with  servants.  The  kitchen  will  not 
improve  you,  in  the  many  respects  in  which  you  need  improvement.  Of  the  woman 
who  abets  you,  I  say  nothing — since  you,  Clara,'  addressing  my  mother  in  a  lower 
voice,  '  from  old  associations  and  long-established  fancies,  have  a  weakness  respecting 
her  which  is  not  yet  overcome.' 

'  A  most  unaccountable  delusion  it  is  !  '  cried  Miss  Murdstone. 

'  I  only  say,'  he  resumed,  addressing  me,  '  that  I  disapprove  of  your  preferring 
such  company  as  Mistress  Peggotty,  and  that  it  is  to  be  abandoned.  Now,  David, 
you  understand  me,  and  you  know  what  will  be  the  consequence  if  you  fail  to  obey  me 
to  the  letter.' 

I  knew  well — better  perhaps  than  he  thought,  as  far  as  my  poor  mother  was 
concerned — and  I  obeyed  him  to  the  letter.  I  retreated  to  my  own  room  no  more  ; 
I  took  refuge  with  Peggotty  no  more  ;  but  sat  wearily  in  the  parlour  day  after  day 
looking  forward  to  night,  and  bed-time. 

^Vhat  irksome  constraint  I  underwent,  sitting  in  the  same  attitude  hours  upon 
hours,  afraid  to  move  an  arm  or  a  leg  lest  Miss  Murdstone  should  complain  (as  she 
did  on  the  least  pretence)  of  my  restlessness,  and  afraid  to  move  an  eye  lest  she  should 
light  on  some  look  of  dislike  or  scrutiny  that  would  find  new  cause  for  complaint  in 
mine  !  What  intolerable  dulness  to  sit  listening  to  the  ticking  of  the  clock  ;  and 
watcliing  Miss  Murdstone's  little  shiny  steel  beads  as  she  strung  them  ;  and  wondering 
whetlier  she  would  ever  be  married,  and  if  so,  to  what  sort  of  unhappy  man  ;  and 
counting  the  divisions  in  the  moulding  on  the  chimney-piece  ;  and  wandering  away, 
with  my  eyes,  to  the  ceiling,  among  the  curls  and  corkscrews  in  the  paper  on  the  wall  ! 

What  walks  I  took  alone,  down  muddy  lanes,  in  the  bad  winter  weather,  carrying 
that  parlour,  and  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  in  it,  everywhere  :  a  monstrous  load  that 
I  was  obliged  to  bear,  a  daymare  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  breaking  in,  a  weight 
that  brooded  on  my  wits,  and  blunted  them  ! 

What  meals  I  had  in  silence  and  embarrassment,  always  feeling  that  there  were 
a  knife  and  fork  too  many,  and  those  mine  ;  an  appetite  too  many,  and  that  mine  ; 
a  plate  and  chair  too  many,  and  those  mine  ;   a  somebody  too  many,  and  that  I  ! 

What  evenings,  when  the  candles  came,  and  I  was  expected  to  employ  myself, 
but  not  daring  to  read  an  entertaining  book,  pored  over  some  hard-headed  harder- 


I  HAVE  A  MEMORABLE  lilHTRDAY  79 

hearted  treatise  on  arilliinetic  ;  when  the  tables  of  weij^lits  and  measures  set  themselves 
to  tunes,  as  Rule  Britannia,  or  Away  witli  Melanelioly  ;  when  they  wouldn't  stand 
still  to  be  learnt,  but  would  go  threading  my  grandmother's  needle  through  my 
unfortunate  head,  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other  ! 

What  yawns  and  dozes  I  lapsed  into,  in  spite  of  all  my  eare  ;  what  starts  I  eame 
out  of  concealed  sleeps  with  ;  what  answers  I  never  got,  to  little  observations  that  I 
rarely  made  ;  what  a  blank  space  I  seemed,  which  everybody  overlooked,  and  yet  was 
in  everybody's  way  ;  what  a  heavy  relief  it  was  to  hear  Miss  Murdstonc  hail  the  first 
stroke  of  nine  at  night,  and  order  me  to  bed  ! 

Thus  the  holidays  lagged  away,  until  the  morning  came  when  Miss  Murdstone 
said  :    '  Here  's  the  last  day  off !  '  and  gave  me  the  closing  cuj)  of  tea  of  the  vacation. 

I  was  not  sorry  to  go.  I  had  lapsed  into  a  stupid  state  ;  but  I  was  recovering  a 
little  and  looking  forward  to  Steerforth,  albeit  Mr.  Creakle  loomed  behind  him.  Again 
Mr.  Barkis  appeared  at  the  gate,  and  again  Miss  Murdstone  in  her  warning  voice  said  : 
'  Clara  I  '  when  my  mother  bent  over  me,  to  bid  me  farewell. 

I  kissed  her,  and  my  baby  brother,  and  was  very  sorry  then  ;  but  not  sorry  to  go 
away,  for  the  gulf  between  us  was  there,  and  the  parting  was  there,  every  day.  And 
it  is  not  so  much  the  embrace  she  gave  me,  that  lives  in  my  mind,  though  it  was  as 
fervent  as  could  be,  as  what  followed  the  embrace. 

I  was  in  the  carrier's  cart  when  I  heard  her  calling  to  me.  I  looked  out,  and  she 
stood  at  the  garden-gate  alone,  holding  her  baby  up  in  her  arms  for  me  to  see.  It  was 
cold  still  weather ;  and  not  a  hair  of  her  head,  nor  a  fold  of  her  dress,  was  stirred,  as 
she  looked  intently  at  me,  holding  up  her  child. 

So  I  lost  her.  So  I  saw  her  afterwards,  in  my  sleep  at  school — a  silent  presence 
near  my  bed — looking  at  me  with  the  same  intent  face — holding  up  her  baby  in 
her  arms. 


CHAPTER    IX 

I    HAVE    A    MEMORABLE    BIRTHDAY 

I  PASS  over  all  that  happened  at  school,  until  the  anniversary  of  my  birthday 
came  round  in  March.  Except  that  Steerforth  was  more  to  be  admired  than 
ever,  I  remember  nothing.  He  was  going  away  at  the  end  of  the  half-year,  if 
not  sooner,  and  was  more  spirited  and  independent  than  before  in  my  eyes, 
and  therefore  more  engaging  than  before  ;  but  beyond  this  I  remember  nothing. 
The  great  remembrance  by  which  that  time  is  marked  in  my  mind,  seems  to  have 
swallowed  up  all  lesser  recollections,  and  to  exist  alone. 

It  is  even  difficult  for  me  to  believe  that  there  was  a  gap  of  full  two  months 
between  my  return  to  Salem  House  and  the  arrival  of  that  birthday.  I  can  only 
understand  that  the  fact  was  so,  because  I  know  it  must  have  been  so  ;  otherwise  I 
should  feel  convinced  that  there  was  no  interval,  and  that  the  one  occasion  trod  upon 
the  other's  heels. 

How  well  I  recollect  the  kind  of  day  it  was  !  I  smell  the  fog  that  hung  about 
the  place  ;  I  see  the  hoar-frost,  ghostly,  through  it ;  I  feel  my  rimy  hair  fall  clammy 
on  my  cheek  ;   I  look  along  the  dim  perspective  of  the  schoolroom,  with  a  sputtering 


80  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

candle  here  and  there  to  light  up  the  foggy  morning,  and  the  breath  of  the  boys 
wreathing  and  smoking  in  the  raw  cold  as  they  blow  upon  their  fingers,  and  tap  their 
feet  upon  the  floor. 

It  was  after  breakfast,  and  we  had  been  summoned  in  from  the  playground, 
when  Mr.  Sharp  entered  and  said — 

'  David  Copperfield  is  to  go  into  the  parlour.' 

I  expected  a  hamper  from  Peggotty,  and  brightened  at  the  order.  Some  of  the 
boys  about  me  put  in  their  claim  not  to  be  forgotten  in  the  distribution  of  the  good 
things,  as  I  got  out  of  my  seat  with  great  alacrity. 

'  Don't  hurry,  David,'  said  Mr.  Sharp.  '  There  's  time  enough,  my  boy,  don't 
hurry.' 

I  might  have  been  surprised  by  the  feeling  tone  in  which  he  spoke,  if  I  had  given 
it  a  thought ;  but  I  gave  it  none  until  afterwards.  I  hurried  away  to  the  parlour ; 
and  there  I  found  Mr.  Creakle,  sitting  at  his  breakfast  with  the  cane  and  a  newpaper 
before  him,  and  Mrs.  Creakle  with  an  opened  letter  in  her  hand.     But  no  hamper. 

'  David  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Creakle,  leading  me  to  a  sofa,  and  sitting  down 
beside  me.  '  I  want  to  speak  to  you  very  particularly.  I  have  something  to  tell  you, 
my  child.' 

Mr.  Creakle,  at  whom  of  course  I  looked,  shook  his  head  without  looking  at  me, 
and  stopped  up  a  sigh  with  a  very  large  piece  of  buttered  toast. 

'  You  are  too  young  to  know  how  the  world  changes  every  day,'  said  Mrs.  Creakle, 
'  and  how  the  people  in  it  pass  away.  But  we  all  have  to  learn  it,  David  ;  some  of  us 
when  we  are  young,  some  of  us  when  we  are  old,  some  of  us  at  all  times  of  our  lives.' 

I  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

'  When  you  came  away  from  home  at  the  end  of  the  vacation,'  said  Mrs.  Creakle, 
after  a  pause,  '  were  they  all  well  ?  '     After  another  pause,  '  Was  your  mamma  well  ?  ' 

I  trembled  without  distinctly  knowing  why,  and  still  looked  at  her  earnestly, 
making  no  attempt  to  answer. 

'  Because,'  said  she,  '  I  grieve  to  tell  you  that  I  hear  this  morning  your  mamma 
is  very  ill.' 

A  mist  rose  between  Mrs.  Creakle  and  me,  and  her  figure  seemed  to  move  in  it  for 
an  instant.     Then  I  felt  the  burning  tears  run  down  my  face,  and  it  was  steady  again. 

'  She  is  very  dangerously  ill,'  she  added. 

I  knew  all  now. 

'  She  is  dead.' 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  me  so.  I  had  already  broken  out  into  a  desolate  cry, 
and  felt  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world. 

She  was  very  kind  to  me.  She  kept  me  there  all  day,  and  left  me  alone  some- 
times ;  and  I  cried,  and  wore  myself  to  sleep,  and  awoke  and  cried  again.  When  I 
could  cry  no  more,  I  began  to  think  ;  and  then  the  oppression  on  my  breast  was 
heaviest,  and  my  grief  a  dull  pain  that  there  was  no  ease  for. 

And  yet  my  thoughts  were  idle  ;  not  intent  on  the  calamity  that  weighed  upon 
my  heart,  but  idly  loitering  near  it.  I  thought  of  our  house  shut  up  and  hushed.  I 
thought  of  the  little  baby,  who,  Mrs.  Creakle  said,  had  been  pining  away  for  some 
time,  and  who,  they  believed,  would  die  too.  I  thought  of  my  father's  grave  in  the 
churchyard,  by  our  house,  and  of  my  mother  lying  there  beneath  the  tree  I  knew  so 
well.  I  stood  upon  a  chair  when  I  was  left  alone,  and  looked  into  the  glass  to  see  how 
red  my  eyes  were,  and  how  sorrowful  my  face.     I  considered,  after  some  hours  were 


1   HAVE  A  xVIEMORABLE  BIRTHDAY  hi 

pone,  if  my  tears  were  really  hard  to  (low  now,  as  they  seemed  to  be,  what,  in  connection 
with  my  loss,  it  wo\ild  affect  nie  most  to  think  of  w'hen  I  drew  near  home — for  I  was 
going  home  to  the  funeral.  I  am  sensible  of  having  felt  that  a  dignity  attached  to  me 
among  the  rest  of  the  boys,  and  that  I  was  inipf)rtaiit  in  my  affliction. 

If  ever  child  were  stricken  with  sincere  grief,  1  was.  But  I  remember  that  this 
importance  was  a  kind  of  satisfaction  to  me,  when  I  walked  in  the  playground  that 
afternoon  while  the  boj's  were  in  school.  When  I  saw  them  glancing  at  me  out  of  the 
windows,  as  they  went  up  to  their  classes,  I  felt  distinguished,  and  looked  more  melan- 
choly, and  walked  slower.  Wlien  school  was  over,  and  they  came  out  and  spoke  to  me, 
I  felt  it  rather  good  in  myself  not  to  be  proud  to  any  of  them,  and  to  take  exactly  the 
same  notice  of  them  all,  as  before. 

I  was  to  go  home  next  night ;  not  by  the  mail,  but  by  the  heavy  night-coach, 
which  was  called  the  Farmer,  and  was  principally  used  by  country-people  travelling 
short  intermediate  distances  upon  the  road.  We  had  no  story-telling  that  evening, 
and  Traddles  insisted  on  lending  me  his  pillow.  I  don't  know  what  good  he  thought 
it  woxild  do  me,  for  I  had  one  of  my  own  ;  but  it  was  all  he  had  to  lend,  poor  fellow, 
except  a  sheet  of  letter-paper  full  of  skeletons  ;  and  that  he  gave  me  at  parting,  as  a 
soother  of  my  sorrows  and  a  contribution  to  my  peace  of  mind. 

I  left  Salem  House  upon  the  morrow  afternoon.  I  little  thought  then  that  I  left, 
never  to  return.  We  travelled  very  slowly  all  night,  and  did  not  get  into  Yarmouth 
before  nine  or  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  looked  out  for  Mr.  Barkis,  but  he  was 
not  there  ;  and  instead  of  him  a  fat,  short-winded,  merry-looking,  little  old  man  in 
black,  with  rusty  little  bunches  of  ribbons  at  the  knees  of  his  breeches,  black  stockings, 
and  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  came  puffing  up  to  the  coach-window,  and  said — 

'  Master  Copperfield  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'  Will  you  come  with  me,  young  sir,  if  you  please,'  he  said,  opening  the  door, 
'  and  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  you  home  ?  ' 

I  put  my  hand  in  his,  wondering  who  he  was,  and  we  walked  away  to  a  shop  in  a 
narrow  street,  on  which  was  written,  Omer,  Draper,  Tailor,  Haberdasher,  Funeral 
Furnisher,  &c.  It  was  a  close  and  stifling  little  shop  ;  full  of  all  sorts  of  clothing, 
made  and  unmade,  including  one  window  full  of  beaver-hats  and  bonnets.  We  went 
into  a  little  back-parlour  behind  the  shop,  where  we  found  three  young  women  at  work 
on  a  quantity  of  black  materials,  which  were  heaped  upon  the  table,  and  little  bits 
and  cuttings  of  which  were  littered  all  over  the  floor.  There  was  a  good  fire  in  the  room, 
and  a  breathless  smell  of  warm  black  crape.  I  did  not  know  what  the  smell  was  then, 
but  I  know  now. 

The  three  young  women,  who  appeared  to  be  very  industrious  and  comfortable, 
raised  their  heads  to  look  at  me,  and  then  went  on  with  their  work.  Stitch,  stitch, 
stitch.  At  the  same  time  there  came  from  the  workshop  across  a  little  yard  outside 
the  window,  a  regular  sound  of  hammering  that  kept  a  kind  of  tune  :  R.at — tat-tat, 
rat — tat-tat,  RAT — tat-tat,  without  any  variation. 

'  Well,'  said  my  conductor  to  one  of  the  three  yoimg  women.  '  How  do  you  get 
on,  Minnie  ?  ' 

'  We  shall  be  ready  by  the  trying-on  time,'  she  replied  gaily,  without  looking  up. 
'  Don't  you  be  afraid,  father.' 

Mr.  Omer  took  off  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  sat  down  and  panted.  He  was  so 
fat  that  he  was  obliged  to  pant  some  time  before  he  could  say — 


82  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  That 's  right.' 

'  Father  !  '  said  Minnie,  playfully.     '  What  a  poqjoise  you  do  grow  !  ' 

'  Well.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  my  dear,'  he  replied,  considering  about  it.     '  I  am 

rather  so." 

'  You  are  such  a  comfortable  man,  you  see,'  said  Minnie.      '  You  take  things 

so  easy.' 

'  No  use  taking  'em  otherwise,  my  dear,'  said  Mr.  Omer. 

'  No,  indeed,'  returned  his  daughter.  '  We  are  all  pretty  gay  here,  thank  HeavenJ! 
Ain't  we,  father  "?  ' 

'  I  hope  so,  my  dear,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  As  I  have  got  my  breath  now,  I  think 
I  '11  measure  this  young  scholar.     Would  you  walk  into  the  shop.  Master  Copperfield  ?  ' 

I  preceded  Mr.  Omer,  in  compliance  with  his  request ;  and  after  showing  me  a  roll 
of  cloth  which  he  said  was  extra  super,  and  too  good  mourning  for  anything  short  of 
parents,  he  took  my  various  dimensions,  and  put  them  down  in  a  book.  While  he  was 
recording  them  he  called  my  attention  to  his  stock  in  trade,  and  to  certain  fashions 
which  he  said  had  '  just  come  up,'  and  to  certain  other  fashions  which  he  said  had  '  just 
gone  out.' 

'  And  by  that  sort  of  thing  we  very  often  lose  a  little  mint  of  money,'  said  Mr. 
Omer.  '  But  fashions  are  like  human  beings.  They  come  in,  nobody  knows  when, 
why,  or  how  ;  and  they  go  out,  nobodj'  knows  when,  why,  or  how.  Everything  is 
like  life,  in  my  opinion,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that  point  of  view.' 

I  was  too  sorrowful  to  discuss  the  question,  which  would  possibly  have  been 
beyond  me  imder  any  circumstances  ;  and  Mr.  Omer  took  me  back  into  the  parlour, 
breathing  with  some  difficulty  on  the  way. 

He  then  called  down  a  little  break-neck  range  of  steps  behind  a  door  :  '  Bring  up 
that  tea  and  bread-and-butter  !  '  which,  after  some  time,  during  which  I  sat  looking 
about  me  and  thinking,  and  listening  to  the  stitching  in  the  room  and  the  tune  that 
was  being  hammered  across  the  yard,  appeared  on  a  tray,  and  turned  out  to  be  for  me. 

'  I  have  been  acquainted  with  you,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  after  watching  me  for  some 
minutes,  during  which  I  had  not  made  much  impresison  on  the  breakfast,  for  the 
black  things  destroyed  my  appetite,  '  I  have  been  acquainted  with  you  a  long  time,  my 
young  friend.' 

'  Have  you,  sir  ?  ' 

'  All  your  life,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  I  may  say  before  it.  I  knew  your  father  before 
vou.     He  was  five  foot  nine  and  a  half,  and  he  lays  in  five  and  twen-ty  foot  of  ground.' 

'  Rat — tat-tat,  rat — tat-tat,  rat — tat-tat,'  across  the  yard. 

'  He  lays  in  five  and  twen-ty  foot  of  ground,  if  he  lays  in  a  fraction,'  said  Mr. 
Omer,  pleasantly.     '  It  was  either  his  request  or  her  direction,  I  forget  which.' 

'  Do  you  know  how  my  little  brother  is,  sir  ?  '  I  inquired. 

Mr.  Omer  shook  his  head. 

'  Rat — tat-tat,  rat — tat-tat,  rat — tat-tat.' 

'  He  is  in  his  mother's  arms,'  said  he. 

'  Oh,  poor  little  fellow  !     Is  he  dead  ?  ' 

'  Don't  mind  it  more  than  you  can  help,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  Yes.  The  baby  's 
dead.' 

My  wounds  broke  out  afresh  at  this  intelligence.  I  left  the  scarcely  tasted  break- 
fast, and  went  and  rested  my  head  on  another  table  in  a  comer  of  the  little  room, 
which  Minnie  hastily  cleared,  lest  I  should  spot  the  mourning  that  was  lying  there 


I  HAVE  A  MEMORABLE  lilUTlIDAY  83 

with  my  tears.  She  was  a  pretty  good-natured  girl,  and  put  my  hair  away  from  my 
eyes  with  a  soft  kind  touch  ;  but  slie  was  very  cheerful  at  having  nearly  finished  her 
work  and  being  in  good  time,  and  was  so  different  from  me  ! 

Presently  the  tunc  left  off,  and  a  good-looking  young  fellow  came  across  the  yard 
into  the  room.  He  had  a  iiamnicr  in  his  hand,  and  his  mouth  was  full  of  little  nails, 
which  he  was  obliged  to  take  out  before  he  could  speak. 

'  Well,  Joram  !  '  said  Mr.  Omer.     '  How  do  you  get  on  ?  ' 

'  All  right,'  said  Joram.     '  Done,  sir.' 

Minnie  coloured  a  little,  and  the  other  two  girls  smiled  at  one  another. 

'  What  !  you  were  at  it  by  candle-light  last  night,  when  I  was  at  the  club,  then  ? 
Were  you  ?  '  said  Mr.  Omer,  shutting  up  one  eye. 

'  Yes,'  said  Joram.  '  As  you  said  wc  could  make  a  little  trip  of  it,  and  go  over 
together,  if  it  was  done,  Minnie  and  me — and  you.' 

'  Oh  !  I  thought  you  were  going  to  leave  me  out  altogether,'  said  Mr.  Omer, 
laughing  till  he  coughed. 

'  — As  you  was  so  good  as  to  say  that,'  resumed  the  young  man,  '  why  I  turned  to 
with  a  will,  you  see.     Will  you  give  me  your  opinion  of  it  ?  " 

'  I  will,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  rising.  '  My  dear  '  ;  and  he  stopped  and  turned  to  me  ; 
'  would  you  like  to  see  your ' 

'  No,  father,'  Minnie  interposed. 

'  I  thought  it  might  be  agreeable,  my  dear,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  But  perhaps  you  're 
right.' 

I  can't  say  how  I  knew  it  was  my  dear,  dear  mother's  coffin  that  they  went  to 
look  at.  I  have  never  heard  one  making ;  I  had  never  seen  one  that  I  know  of :  but 
it  came  into  my  mind  what  the  noise  was,  while  it  was  going  on  ;  and  when  the  yoimg 
man  entered,  I  am  sure  I  knew  what  he  had  been  doing. 

The  work  being  now  finished,  the  two  girls,  whose  names  I  had  not  heard,  brushed 
the  shreds  and  threads  from  their  dresses,  and  went  into  the  shop  to  put  that  to  rights, 
and  wait  for  customers.  Minnie  stayed  behind  to  fold  up  what  they  had  made,  and 
pack  it  in  two  baskets.  This  she  did  upon  her  knees,  humming  a  lively  little  tune  the 
while.  Joram,  who  I  had  no  doubt  was  her  lover,  came  in  and  stole  a  kiss  from  her 
while  she  was  busy  (he  didn't  appear  to  mind  me  at  all),  and  said  her  father  was  gone 
for  the  chaise,  and  he  must  make  haste  to  get  himself  ready.  Then  he  went  out  again  ; 
and  then  she  put  her  thimble  and  scissors  in  her  pocket,  and  stuck  a  needle  threaded 
with  black  thread  neatly  in  the  bosom  of  her  gown,  and  put  on  her  outer  clothing 
smartly,  at  a  little  glass  behind  the  door,  in  which  I  saw  the  reflection  of  her 
pleased  face. 

All  this  I  observed,  sitting  at  the  table  in  the  comer  with  my  head  leaning  on  my 
hand,  and  my  thoughts  running  on  very  different  things.  The  chaise  soon  came 
round  to  the  front  of  the  shop,  and  the  baskets  being  put  in  first,  I  was  put  in  next, 
and  those  three  followed.  I  remember  it  as  a  kind  of  half  chaise-cart,  half  pianoforte- 
van,  painted  of  a  sombre  colour,  and  drawn  by  a  black  horse  with  a  long  tail.  There 
was  plenty  of  room  for  us  all. 

I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  experienced  so  strange  a  feeling  in  my  life  (I  am  wiser 
now,  perhaps)  as  that  of  being  with  them,  remembering  how  they  had  been  employed, 
and  seeing  them  enjoy  the  ride.  I  was  not  angry  with  them  ;  I  was  more  afraid  of 
them,  as  if  I  were  cast  away  among  creatures  with  whom  I  had  no  community  of  nature. 
They  were  very  cheerful.     The  old  man  sat  in  front  to  drive,  and  the  two  young  people 


84  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

sat  behind  him,  and  whenever  he  spoke  to  them  leaned  forward,  the  one  on'one  side 
of  his  chubby  face  and  the  other  on  the  other,  and  made  a  great  deal  of  him.  They 
would  have  talked  to  me  too,  but  I  held  back,  and  moped  in  my  comer ;  scared  by 
their  love-making  and  hilarity,  though  it  was  far  from  boisterous,  and  almost  wondering 
that  no  judgment  came  upon  them  for  their  hardness  of  heart. 

So,  when  they  stopped  to  bait  the  horse,  and  ate  and  drank  and  enjoyed  them- 
selves, I  could  touch  nothing  that  they  touched,  but  kept  my  fast  unbroken.  So, 
when  we  reached  home,  I  dropped  out  of  the  chaise  behind,  as  quickly  as  possible,  that 
I  might  not  be  in  their  company  before  those  solemn  windows,  looking  blindly  on  me 
like  closed  eyes  once  bright.  And  oh,  how  little  need  I  had  had  to  think  what  would 
move  me  to  tears  when  I  came  back — seeing  the  window  of  my  mother's  room,  and  next 
it  that  which,  in  the  better  time,  was  mine  ! 

I  was  in  Peggotty's  arms  before  I  got  to  the  door,  and  she  took  me  into  the  house. 
Her  grief  burst  out  when  she  first  saw  me  ;  but  she  controlled  it  soon,  and  spoke  in 
whispers,  and  walked  softly,  as  if  the  dead  could  be  disturbed.  She  had  not  been  in 
bed,  I  found,  for  a  long  time.  She  sat  up  at  night  still,  and  watched.  As  long  as  her 
poor  dear  pretty  was  above  the  ground,  she  said,  she  would  never  desert  her. 

Mr.  Murdstone  took  no  heed  of  me  when  I  went  into  the  parlour,  where  he  was, 
but  sat  by  the  fireside,  weeping  silently,  and  pondering  in  his  elbow-chair.  Miss 
Murdstone,  who  was  busy  at  her  writing-desk,  which  was  covered  with  letters  and 
papers,  gave  me  her  cold  finger-nails,  and  asked  me,  in  an  iron  whisper,  if  I  had  been 
measured  for  my  mourning. 

I  said,    '  Yes.' 

'  And  your  shirts,'  said  Miss  Murdstone  ;   '  have  you  brought  'em  home  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  ma'am.     I  have  brought  home  all  my  clothes.' 

This  was  all  the  consolation  that  her  firmness  administered  to  me.  I  do  not 
doubt  that  she  had  a  choice  pleasure  in  exhibiting  what  she  called  her  self-command, 
and  her  firmness,  and  her  strength  of  mind,  and  her  common  sense,  and  the  whole 
diabolical  catalogue  of  her  unamiable  qualities,  on  such  an  occasion.  She  was  par- 
ticularly proud  of  her  turn  for  business  ;  and  she  showed  it  now  in  reducing  everything 
to  pen  and  ink,  and  being  moved  by  nothing.  All  the  rest  of  that  day,  and  from 
morning  to  night  afterwards,  she  sat  at  that  desk  ;  scratching  composedly  with  a  hard 
pen,  speaking  in  the  same  imperturbable  whisper  to  everybody  ;  never  relaxing  a 
muscle  of  her  face,  or  softening  a  tone  of  her  voice,  or  appearing  with  an  atom  of  her 
dress  astray. 

Her  brother  took  a  book  sometimes,  but  never  read  it  that  I  saw.  He  would 
open  it  and  look  at  it  as  if  he  were  reading,  but  would  remain  for  a  whole  hour  without 
turning  the  leaf,  and  then  put  it  down  and  walk  to  and  fro  in  the  room.  I  used  to  sit 
with  folded  hands  watching  him,  and  counting  his  footsteps,  hour  after  hour.  He 
very  seldom  spoke  to  her,  and  never  to  me.  He  seemed  to  be  the  only  restless  thing, 
except  the  clocks,  in  the  whole  motionless  house. 

In  these  days  before  the  funeral,  I  saw  but  little  of  Peggotty,  except  that,  in 
passing  up  or  down  stairs,  I  always  found  her  close  to  the  room  where  my  mother 
and  her  baby  lay,  and  except  that  she  came  to  me  every  night,  and  sat  by  my  bed's 
head  while  I  went  to  sleep.  A  day  or  two  before  the  burial — I  think  it  was  a  day  or 
two  before,  but  I  am  conscious  of  confusion  in  my  mind  about  that  heavy  time,  with 
nothing  to  mark  its  progress — she  took  me  into  the  room.  1  only  recollect  that  under- 
neath some  white  covering  on  the  bed,  with  a  beautiful  cleanliness  and  freshness  all 


T  HAVE  A   MEMORABLE  UTRTIIDAY  «r, 

around  it,  there  seemed  to  me  to  lie  embodied  tlie  Mjleimi  stillness  lliut  was  in  the 
house  ;  and  that  when  she  would  have  turned  the  cover  gently  back,  I  cried,  '  Oh  no  ! 
oh  no  !  '  and  held  her  hand. 

If  the  funeral  had  been  yesterday,  I  could  not  reeolieet  it  better.  The  very  air 
of  the  best  parlour,  when  I  went  in  at  the  door,  the  bright  condition  of  the  fire,  the 
shining  of  the  wine  in  the  decanters,  the  patterns  of  the  glasses  and  plates,  the  faint 
sweet  smell  of  cake,  the  odour  of  Miss  Murdstonc's  dress,  and  our  black  clothes.  Mr. 
Chillip  is  in  the  room,  and  comes  to  speak  to  me. 

'  And  how  is  Master  David  ?  '  he  says,  kindly. 

I  cannot  tell  him  very  well.     I  give  him  my  hand,  which  he  holds  in  his. 

'  Dear  me  !  '  says  Mr.  Chillip,  meekly  smiling,  with  something  shining  in  his  eye. 
'  Our  little  friends  grow  up  around  us.     They  grow  out  of  our  knowledge,  ma'am  ?  " 

This  is  to  Miss  Murdstone,  who  makes  no  reply. 

'  There  is  a  great  improvement  here,  ma'am  ?  '  says  Mr.  Chillip. 

Miss  Murdstone  merely  answers  with  a  frown  and  a  formal  bend  ;  Mr.  Chillii>, 
discomfited,  goes  into  a  comer,  keeping  me  with  him,  and  opens  his  mouth  no  more. 

I  remark  this,  because  I  remark  everything  that  happens,  not  because  I  care 
about  myself,  or  have  done  since  I  came  home.  And  now  the  bell  begins  to  sound,  and 
Mr.  Omer  and  another  come  to  make  us  ready.  As  Peggotty  was  wont  to  tell  me, 
long  ago,  the  followers  of  my  father  to  the  same  grave  were  made  ready  in  the 
same  room. 

There  are  Mr.  Murdstone,  our  neighbour  Mr.  Grayper,  Mr.  Chillip,  and  I.  When  we 
go  out  to  the  door,  the  bearers  and  their  load  are  in  the  garden  ;  and  they  move  before 
us  down  the  path,  and  past  the  elms,  and  through  the  gate,  and  into  the  churchyard, 
where  I  have  so  often  heard  the  birds  sing  on  a  summer  morning. 

We  stand  around  the  grave.  The  day  seems  different  to  me  from  every  other 
day,  and  the  light  not  of  the  same  colour — of  a  sadder  colour.  Now  there  is  a  solemn 
hush,  which  we  have  brought  from  home  with  what  is  resting  in  the  mould  ;  and 
while  we  stand  bareheaded,  I  hear  the  voice  of  the  clergyman,  sounding  remote  in  the 
open  air,  and  yet  distinct  and  plain,  saying,  '  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith 
the  Lord  !  '  Then  I  hear  sobs  ;  and,  standing  apart  among  the  lookers-on,  I  see  that 
good  and  faithful  servant,  whom  of  all  the  people  upon  earth  I  love  the  best,  and  unto 
whom  my  childish  heart  is  certain  that  the  Lord  will  one  day  say,  '  Well  done.' 

There  are  many  faces  that  I  know,  among  the  little  crowd  ;  faces  that  I  knew  in 
church,  when  mine  was  always  wondering  there  ;  faces  that  first  saw  my  mother, 
when  she  came  to  the  village  in  her  youthful  bloom.  I  do  not  mind  them — I  mind 
nothing  but  my  grief — and  yet  I  see  and  know  them  all ;  and  even  in  the  background, 
far  away,  see  Minnie  looking  on,  and  her  eye  glancing  on  her  sweetheart,  who  is  near  me. 

It  is  over,  and  the  earth  is  filled  in,  and  we  turn  to  come  away.  Before  us  standi 
our  house,  so  pretty  and  unchanged,  so  linked  in  my  mind  with  the  young  idea  of  what 
is  gone,  that  all  my  sorrow  has  been  nothing  to  the  sorrow  it  calls  forth.  But  they 
take  me  on  ;  and  Mr.  Chillip  talks  to  me  ;  and  when  we  get  home,  puts  some  water  to 
my  lips  ;  and  when  I  ask  his  leave  to  go  up  to  my  room,  dismisses  me  with  the  gentle- 
ness of  a  woman. 

All  this,  I  say,  is  yesterday's  event.  Events  of  later  date  have  floated  from  me 
to  the  shore  where  all  forgotten  things  will  reappear,  but  this  stands  like  a  high  rock  in 
the  ocean. 

I  knew  that  Peggotty  would  come  to  me  in  my  room.     The  Sabbath  stillness  of 


86  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

the  time  (the  day  was  so  Hke  Sunday  !  I  have  forgotten  that)  was  suited  to  us  both. 
She  sat  down  by  my  side  upon  my  little  bed  ;  and  holding  my  hand,  and  sometimes 
putting  it  to  her  lips,  and  sometimes  smoothing  it  with  hers,  as  she  might  have 
comforted  my  little  brother,  told  me,  in  her  way,  all  that  she  had  to  tell  concerning 
what  had  happened. 

'  She  was  never  well,'  said  Peggotty,  '  for  a  long  time.  She  was  uncertain  in  her 
mind,  and  not  happy.  When  her  baby  was  born,  I  thought  at  first  she  would  get 
better,  but  she  was  more  delicate,  and  sunk  a  little  every  day.  She  used  to  like  to  sit 
alone  before  her  baby  came,  and  then  she  cried  ;  but  afterwards  she  used  to  sing  to  it 
— so  soft — that  I  once  thought  when  I  heard  her,  it  was  like  a  voice  up  in  the  air,  that 
was  rising  away. 

'  I  think  she  got  to  be  more  timid,  and  more  frightened-like,  of  late  ;  and  that  a 
hard  word  was  like  a  blow  to  her.  But  she  was  always  the  same  to  me.  She  never 
changed  to  her  foolish  Peggotty,  didn't  my  sweet  girl.' 

Here  Peggotty  stopped,  and  softly  beat  upon  my  hand  a  little  while. 

'  The  last  time  that  I  saw  her  like  her  own  old  self,  was  the  night  when  you  came 
home,  my  dear.  The  day  you  went  away,  she  said  to  me,  "  I  never  shall  see  my  pretty 
darling  again.     Something  tells  me  so,  that  tells  the  truth,  I  know." 

'  She  tried  to  hold  up  after  that ;  and  many  a  time,  when  they  told  her  she  was 
thoughtless  and  light-hearted,  made  believe  to  be  so  ;  but  it  was  all  a  bygone  then. 
She  never  told  her  husband  what  she  had  told  me — she  was  afraid  of  saying  it  to  any- 
body else — till  one  night,  a  little  more  than  a  week  before  it  happened,  when  she  said 
to  him,  "  My  dear,  I  think  I  am  dying." 

'  "  It 's  off  my  mind  now,  Peggotty,'  she  told  me,  when  I  laid  her  in  her  bed  that 
night.  "  He  will  believe  it  more  and  more,  poor  fellow,  every  day  for  a  few  days  to 
come  ;  and  then  it  will  be  past.  I  am  very  tired.  If  this  is  sleep,  sit  by  me  whCe  I 
sleep :  don't  leave  me.  God  bless  both  my  children  !  God  protect  and  keep  my 
fatherless  boy  !  " 

'  I  never  left  her  afterwards,'  said  Peggotty.  '  She  often  talked  to  them  down- 
stairs— for  she  loved  them  ;  she  couldn't  bear  not  to  love  any  one  who  was  about  her 
— but  when  they  went  away  from  her  bedside,  she  always  turned  to  me,  as  if  there  was 
rest  where  Peggotty  was,  and  never  fell  asleep  in  any  other  way. 

'  On  the  last  night,  in  the  evening,  she  kissed  me  and  said,  "  If  my  baby  should 
die  too,  Peggotty,  please  let  them  lay  him  in  my  arms,  and  bury  us  together."  (It 
was  done  ;  for  the  poor  lamb  lived  but  a  day  beyond  her.)  "  Let  my  dearest  boy  go 
with  us  to  our  resting-place,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  him  that  his  mother,  when  she  lay 
here,  blessed  him  not  once,  but  a  thousand  times."  ' 

Another  silence  followed  this,  and  another  gentle  beating  on  my  hand. 

'  It  was  pretty  far  in  the  night,'  said  Peggotty,  '  when  she  asked  me  for  some 
drink  ;  and  when  she  had  taken  it,  gave  me  such  a  patient  smile,  the  dear  ! — so 
beautiful  ! 

'  Daybreak  had  come,  and  the  sun  was  rising,  when  she  said  to  me,  how  kind  and 
considerate  Mr.  Copperfield  had  always  been  to  her,  and  how  he  had  borne  with  her, 
and  told  her,  when  she  doubted  herself,  that  a  loving  heart  was  better  and  stronger 
than  wisdom,  and  that  he  was  a  happy  man  in  hers.  "  Peggotty,  my  dear,"  she  said 
then,  "  put  me  nearer  to  you,'  for  she  was  very  weak.  "  Lay  your  good  arm  under- 
neath my  neck,"  she  said,  "  and  turn  me  to  you,  for  your  face  is  going  far  off,  and  I 


I  BECOME  NEGLECTED,  AND  AM  PROVIDED  FOR     87 

want  it  to  be  near."  I  put  it  as  she  asked  ;  and  oh  Davy  !  the  time  had  come  when 
my  first  parting  words  to  you  were  true — when  she  was  glad  to  lay  her  poor  head  on  her 
stupid  cross  old  Peggotty's  arm — and  slie  died  like  a  child  that  had  gone  to  sleep  !  ' 

Thus  ended  Peggotty's  narration.  From  the  moment  of  my  knowing  of  the 
death  of  my  mother,  the  idea  of  her  as  she  had  been  of  late  had  vanished  from  me.  I 
remembered  her,  from  that  instant,  only  as  the  young  mother  of  my  earliest  impres- 
sions, who  had  been  used  to  wind  her  bright  curls  round  and  round  her  finger,  and  to 
dance  with  me  at  twilight  in  the  parlour.  What  Peggotty  had  told  me  now,  was  so 
far  from  bringing  me  back  to  the  later  period,  that  it  rooted  the  earlier  image  in  my 
mind.  It  may  be  curious,  but  it  is  true.  In  her  death  she  winged  her  way  back  to  her 
calm  untroubled  youth,  and  cancelled  all  the  rest. 

The  mother  who  lay  in  the  grave,  was  the  mother  of  my  infancy  ;  the  little  creature 
in  her  arms,  was  myself,  as  I  had  once  been,  hushed  for  ever  on  her  bosom. 


CHAPTER    X 

I    BECOME    NEGLECTED,    AND    AM    PROVIDED    FOR 

THE  first  act  of  business  Miss  Murdstone  performed  when  the  day  of  the 
solemnity  was  over,  and  light  Avas  freely  admitted  into  the  house,  was 
to  give  Peggotty  a  month's  warning.  Much  as  Peggotty  w'ould  have 
disliked  such  a  sei-vice,  I  believe  she  would  have  retained  it,  for  my  sake, 
in  preference  to  the  best  upon  earth.  She  told  me  we  must  part,  and  told  me  why  ; 
and  we  condoled  with  one  another,  in  all  sincerity. 

As  to  me  or  my  future,  not  a  word  was  said,  or  a  step  taken.  Happy  they  would 
have  been,  I  dare  say,  if  they  could  have  dismissed  me  at  a  month's  warning  too.  I 
mustered  courage  once,  to  ask  Miss  Murdstone  when  I  was  going  back  to  school ;  and 
she  answered  drily,  she  believed  I  was  not  going  back  at  all.  I  was  told  nothing  more. 
I  was  very  anxious  to  know  what  was  going  to  be  done  v/ith  me,  and  so  was  Peggotty  ; 
but  neither  she  nor  I  could  pick  up  any  information  on  the  subject. 

There  was  one  change  in  my  condition,  which,  while  it  relieved  me  of  a  great  deal 
of  present  ujieasiness,  might  have  made  me,  if  I  had  been  capable  of  considering  it 
closely,  yet  more  imcomfortable  about  the  future.  It  was  this.  The  constraint  that 
had  been  put  upon  me,  was  quite  abandoned.  I  was  so  far  from  being  required  to  keep 
my  dull  post  in  the  parlour,  that  on  several  occasions,  when  I  took  my  seat  there. 
Miss  Murdstone  frowned  to  me  to  go  away.  I  was  so  far  from  being  warned  off  from 
Peggotty's  society,  that,  provided  I  was  not  in  Mr.  Murdstone's,  I  was  never  sought 
out  or  inquired  for.  At  first  I  was  in  daily  dread  of  his  taking  my  education  in  hand 
again,  or  of  Miss  Murdstone's  devoting  herself  to  it  ;  but  I  soon  began  to  think  that  such 
fears  were  groundless,  and  that  all  I  had  to  anticipate  was  neglect. 

I  do  not  conceive  that  this  discovery  gave  me  much  pain  then.  I  was  still  giddy 
with  the  shock  of  my  mother's  death,  and  in  a  kind  of  stunned  state  as  to  all  tributary 
things.  I  can  recollect,  indeed,  to  have  speculated,  at  odd  times,  on  the  possibility 
of  my  not  being  taught  any  more,  or  cared  for  any  more  ;  and  growing  up  to  be  a  shabby 
moody  man,  lounging  an  idle  life  away,  about  the  village  ;   as  well  as  on  the  feasibility 


88  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

of  my  getting  rid  of  this  picture  by  going  away  somewhere,  like  the  hero  in  a  story,  to 
seek  my  fortune  ;  but  these  were  transient  visions,  day  dreams  I  sat  looking  at  some- 
times, as  if  they  were  faintly  painted  or  written  on  the  wall  of  my  room,  and  which,  as 
they  melted  away,  left  the  wall  blank  again. 

'  Peggotty,'  I  said  in  a  thoughtful  whisper,  one  evening,  when  I  was  warming 
my  hands  at  the  kitchen  fire,  '  Mr.  Murdstone  likes  me  less  than  he  used  to.     He  never 
liked  me  much,  Peggotty  ;   but  he  would  rather  not  even  see  me  now,  if  he  can  help  it.' 
'  Perhaps  it 's  his  sorrow,'  said  Peggotty,  stroking  my  hair. 

'  I  am  sure,  Peggotty,  I  am  sorry  too.  If  I  believed  it  was  his  sorrow,  I  should  not 
think  of  it  at  all.     But  it 's  not  that ;   oh  no,  it  's  not  that.' 

'  How  do  you  know  it 's  not  that  ?  '  said  Peggotty,  after  a  silence. 
'  Oh,  his  sorrow  is  another  and  quite  a  different  thing.     He  is  sorry  at  this  moment, 
sitting  by  the  fireside  with  Miss  Murdstone  ;   but  if  I  was  to  go  in,  Peggotty,  he  would 
be  something  besides.' 

'  What  would  he  be  ?  '  said  Peggotty. 

'  Angry,'  I  answered,  with  an  involuntary  imitation  of  his  dark  frown.  '  If  he  was 
only  sorry,  he  wouldn't  look  at  me  as  he  does.  /  am  only  sorry,  and  it  makes  me 
feel  kinder.' 

Peggotty  said  nothing  for  a  little  while,  and  I  warmed  my  hands,  as  silent  as  she. 
'  Davy,'  she  said  at  length. 
'  Yes,  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  I  have  tried,  my  dear,  all  ways  I  could  think  of — all  the  ways  there  are,  and  all 
the  ways  there  ain't,  in  short— to  get  a  suitable  service  here,  in  Blunderstone  ;  but 
there  's  no  such  a  thing,  my  love.' 

'  And  what  do  you  mean  to  do,  Peggotty  ?  '  says  I,  wistfully.  '  Do  you  mean  to 
go  and  seek  your  fortune  ?  ' 

'  I  expect  I  shall  be  forced  to  go  to  Yarmouth,'  replied  Peggotty,  '  and  live  there.' 
'  You  might  have  gone  farther  off,'  I  said,  brightening  a  little,  '  and  been  as  bad 
as  lost.     I  shall  see  you  sometimes,  my  dear  old  Peggotty,  there.     You  won't  be  quite 
at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  will  you  ?  ' 

'  Contrary  ways,  please  God  !  '  cried  Peggotty,  with  great  animation.  '  As  long 
as  you  are  here,  my  pet,  I  shall  come  over  every  week  of  my  life  to  see  you.  One  day 
every  week  of  my  life  !  ' 

I  felt  a  great  weight  taken  off  my  mind  by  this  promise  ;  but  even  this  was  not 
all,  for  Peggotty  went  on  to  say — 

'  I  'm  a  going,  Davy,  you  see,  to  my  brother's,  first,  for  another  fortnight's  visit 
— -just  till  I  have  had  time  to  look  about  me,  and  get  to  be  something  like  myself  again. 
Now,  I  have  been  thinking,  that  perhaps,  as  they  don't  want  you  here  at  present, 
you  might  be  let  to  go  along  with  me.' 

If  anything,  short  of  being  in  a  different  relation  to  every  one  about  me,  Peggotty 
excepted,  could  have  given  me  a  sense  of  pleasure  at  that  time,  it  would  have  been 
this  project  of  all  others.  The  idea  of  being  again  surrounded  by  those  honest  faces, 
shining  welcome  on  me  ;  of  renewing  the  peacefulness  of  the  sweet  Sunday  morning, 
when  the  bells  were  ringing,  the  stones  dropping  in  the  water,  and  the  shadowy  ships 
breaking  through  the  mist ;  of  roaming  up  and  down  with  little  Em'ly,  telling  her  my 
troubles,  and  finding  charms  against  them  in  the  shells  and  pebbles  on  the  beach  ; 
made  a  calm  in  my  heart.  It  was  ruffled  next  moment,  to  be  sure,  by  a  doubt  of 
Miss  Murdstone  giving  her  consent ;   but  even  that  was  set  at  rest  soon,  for  she  came 


I  BECOME  NEGLECTED,  AND  AM  PROVIDED  FOR     89 

out  to  take  an  evening  grope  in  the  storc-eloset  while  we  were  yet  in  conversation,  and 
I'eggotty,  with  a  boldness  tliat  amazed  me,  broached  the  topic  on  the  spot. 

'  The  boy  will  be  idle  there,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  looking  into  a  pickle-jar,  '  and 
idleness  is  the  root  of  all  evil.  But,  to  be  sure,  he  would  be  idle  here — or  anywhere, 
in  my  opinion.' 

Peggotty  had  an  angry  answer  ready,  I  could  see  ;  but  she  swallowed  it  for  my 
sake,  and  remained  silent. 

'  Humph  !  '  said  Miss  Murdstone,  still  keeping  her  eye  on  the  pickles  ;  '  it  is  of 
more  importance  than  anything  else — it  is  of  paramount  importance — that  my  brother 
should  not  be  disturbed  or  made  uncomfortable.     I  suppose  I  had  better  say  yes.' 

I  thanked  her,  without  making  any  demonstration  of  joy,  lest  it  should  induce 
her  to  withdraw  her  assent.  Nor  could  I  help  thinking  this  a  prudent  course,  when 
she  looked  at  me  out  of  the  pickle-jar,  with  as  great  an  access  of  sourness  as  if  her 
black  eyes  had  absorbed  its  contents.  However,  the  permission  was  given,  and  was 
never  retracted  ;   for  when  the  month  was  out,  Peggotty  and  I  were  ready  to  depart. 

Mr.  Barkis  came  into  the  house  for  Peggotty's  boxes.  I  had  never  known  him  to 
pass  the  garden-gate  before,  but  on  this  occasion  he  came  into  the  house.  And  he  gave 
me  a  look  as  he  shouldered  the  largest  box  and  went  out,  which  I  thought  had  meaning 
in  it,  if  meaning  could  ever  be  said  to  find  its  way  into  Mr.  Barkis's  visage. 

Peggotty  was  naturally  in  low  spirits  at  leaving  what  had  been  her  home  so  many 
years,  and  where  the  two  strong  attachments  of  her  life — for  my  mother  and  myself — 
had  been  formed.  She  had  been  walking  in  the  churchyard,  too,  very  early  ;  and  she 
got  into  the  cart,  and  sat  in  it  with  her  handkerchief  at  her  eyes. 

So  long  as  she  remained  in  this  condition,  Mr.  Barkis  gave  no  sign  of  life  whatever. 
He  sat  in  his  usual  place  and  attitude,  like  a  great  stuffed  figure.  But  when  she  began 
to  look  about  her,  and  to  speak  to  me,  he  nodded  his  head  and  grinned  several  times. 
I  have  not  the  least  notion  at  whom,  or  what  he  meant  by  it. 

'  It 's  a  beautiful  day,  Mr.  Barkis  !  '  I  said,  as  an  act  of  politeness. 

'  It  ain't  bad,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  who  generally  qualified  his  speech,  and  rarely 
committed  himself. 

'  Peggotty  is  quite  comfortable  now,  Mr.  Barkis,'  I  remarked,  for  his  satisfaction. 

'  Is  she,  though  ?  '  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

After  reflecting  about  it,  with  a  sagacious  air,  Mr.  Barkis  eyed  her,  and  said — 

'  Are  you  pretty  comfortable  ?  ' 

Peggotty  laughed,  and  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

'  But  really  and  truly,  you  know.  Are  you  ?  '  growled  Mr.  Barkis,  sliding  nearer 
to  her  on  the  seat,  and  nudging  her  with  his  elbow.  '  Are  you  ?  Really  and  truly, 
pretty  comfortable  ?  Are  you  ?  Eh  ?  '  At  each  of  these  inquiries  Mr.  Barkis  shuffled 
nearer  to  her,  and  gave  her  another  nudge  ;  so  that  at  last  we  were  all  crowded  together 
in  the  left-hand  comer  of  the  cart,  and  I  was  so  squeezed  that  I  could  hardly 
bear  it. 

Peggotty  calling  his  attention  to  my  sufferings,  Mr.  Barkis  gave  me  a  little  more 
room  at  once,  and  got  away  by  degrees.  But  I  could  not  help  observing  that  he  seemed 
to  think  he  had  hit  upon  a  wonderful  expedient  for  expressing  fiimself  in  a  neat,  agree- 
able, and  pointed  manner,  without  the  inconvenience  of  inventing  conversation.  He 
manifestly  chuckled  over  it  for  some  time.  By  and  by  he  turned  to  Peggotty  again, 
and  repeating,  '  Are  you  pretty  comfortable,  though  ? '  bore  down  upon  us  as  before, 
until  the  breath  was  nearly  wedged  out  of  my  body.     By  and  by  he  made  another 


90  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

descent  upon  us  with  the  same  inquiry,  and  the  same  result.  At  length,  I  got  up 
whenever  I  saw  him  coming,  and  standing  on  the  footboard,  pretended  to  look  at  the 
prospect ;   after  which  I  did  very  well. 

He  was  so  polite  as  to  stop  at  a  public-house,  expressly  on  our  account,  and 
entertain  us  with  broiled  mutton  and  beer.  Even  when  Peggotty  was  in  the  act  of 
drinking,  he  was  seized  with  one  of  those  approaches,  and  almost  choked  her.  But 
as  we  drew  nearer  to  the  end  of  our  journey,  he  had  more  to  do  and  less  time  for 
gallantry ;  and  when  we  got  on  Yarmouth  pavement,  we  were  all  too  much  shaken 
and  jolted,  I  apprehend,  to  have  any  leisure  for  anything  else. 

Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham  waited  for  us  at  the  old  place.  They  received  me  and 
Peggotty  in  an  affectionate  manner,  and  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Barkis,  who,  with  his 
hat  on  the  very  back  of  his  head,  and  a  shamefaced  leer  upon  his  countenance,  and 
pervading  his  very  legs,  presented  but  a  vacant  appearance,  I  thought.  They  each 
took  one  of  Peggotty's  trunks,  and  we  were  going  away,  when  Mr.  Barkis  solemnly 
made  a  sign  to  me  with  his  forefinger  to  come  under  an  archway. 

'  I  say,'  growled  Mr.  Barkis,  '  it  was  all  right.' 

I  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  answered,  with  an  attempt  to  be  very  profound, '  Oh  ! ' 

'  It  didn't  come  to  an  end  there,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  nodding  confidentially.  '  It 
was  all  right.' 

Again  I  answered,  '  Oh  !  ' 

'  You  know  who  was  willin','  said  my  friend.     '  It  was  Barkis,  and  Barkis  only.' 

I  nodded  assent. 

'  It 's  all  right,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  shaking  hands  ;  '  I  'm  a  friend  of  your'n.  You 
made  it  all  right  first.     It 's  all  right.' 

In  his  attempts  to  be  particularly  lucid,  Mr.  Barkis  was  so  extremely  mysterious 
that  I  might  have  stood  looking  in  his  face  for  an  hour,  and  most  assuredly  should 
have  got  as  much  information  out  of  it  as  out  of  the  face  of  a  clock  that  had  stopped, 
but  for  Peggotty's  calling  me  away.  As  we  were  going  along,  she  asked  me  what  he 
had  said  ;   and  I  told  her  he  had  said  it  was  all  right. 

'  Like  his  impudence,'  said  Peggotty,  '  but  I  don't  mind  that  !  Davy  dear,  what 
should  you  think  if  I  was  to  think  of  being  married  ?  ' 

'  Wliy — I  suppose  you  would  like  me  as  much  then,  Peggotty,  as  you  do  now  ?  ' 
I  returned,  after  a  little  consideration. 

Greatly  to  the  astonishment  of  the  passengers  in  the  street,  as  well  as  of  her 
relations  going  on  before,  the  good  soul  was  obliged  to  stop  and  embrace  me  on  the 
spot,  with  many  protestations  of  her  unalterable  love. 

'  Tell  me  what  should  you  say,  darling  ?  '  she  asked  again,  when  this  was  over, 
and  we  were  walking  on. 

'  If  you  were  thinking  of  being  married — to  Mr.  Barkis,  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Peggotty. 

'  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing.  For  then  you  know,  Peggotty, 
you  would  always  have  the  horse  and  cart  to  bring  you  over  to  see  me,  and  could  come 
for  nothing,  and  be  sure  of  coming.' 

'  The  sense  of  the  dear  !  '  cried  Peggotty.  '  What  I  have  been  thinking  of,  this 
month  back  !  Yes,  my  precious  ;  and  I  think  I  should  be  more  independent  altogether, 
you  sec  ;  let  alone  my  working  with  a  better  heart  in  my  own  house,  than  I  could  in 
anybody  else's  now.  I  don't  know  what  I  might  be  fit  for  now,  as  a  servant  to  a  stranger. 
And  I  shall  always  be  near  my  pretty's  resting-place,'  said  Peggotty  musing,  '  and  be 


I  BECOME  NE(iLECTED,  AND  AM   PliOVIDEI)  b'Oll     ji 

able  to  see  it  when  I  like  ;   and  when  /  lie  down  to  rest,  I  may  be  laid  not  far  off  from 
my  darling  girl  !  ' 

We  neither  of  us  said  anything  for  a  little  while. 

'  But  I  wouldn't  so  much  us  give  it  another  thought,'  said  Peggotty,  clieerily,  '  if 
my  Davy  was  anyways  against  it — not  if  I  had  been  asked  in  church  thirty  times  three 
times  over,  and  was  wearing  out  the  ring  in  my  pocket.' 

'  Look  at  me,  Peggotty,'  I  rcj)lied  ;  '  and  see  if  I  am  not  really  glad,  and  don't 
truly  wish  it !  '     As  indeed  I  did,  with  all  my  heart. 

'  Well,  my  life,'  said  Peggotty,  giving  me  a  squeeze,  '  I  have  thought  of  it  night 
and  day,  every  way  I  can,  and  I  hope  the  right  way  ;  but  I  '11  think  of  it  again,  and 
speak  to  my  brother  about  it,  and  in  the  meantime  we  'II  keep  it  to  ourselves,  Davy,  you 
and  me.  Barkis  is  a  good  plain  creatur','  said  Peggotty,  '  and  if  I  tried  to  do  my  duty 
by  him,  I  think  it  would  be  my  fault  if  I  wasn't — if  I  wasn't  pretty  comfortable,'  said 
Peggotty,  laughing  heartily. 

This  quotation  from  Mr.  Barkis  was  so  appropriate,  and  tickled  us  both  so  much, 
that  we  laughed  again  and  again,  and  were  quite  in  a  pleasant  humour  when  we  came 
within  view  of  Mr.  Peggotty 's  cottage. 

It  looked  just  the  same,  except  that  it  may,  perhaps,  have  shrunk  a  little  in  my 
eyes  ;  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  waiting  at  the  door  as  if  she  had  stood  there  ever  since. 
All  within  was  the  same,  down  to  the  seaweed  in  the  blue  mug  in  my  bedroom.  I 
went  into  the  outhouse  to  look  about  me  ;  and  the  very  same  lobsters,  crabs,  and 
crawfish,  possessed  by  the  same  desire  to  pinch  the  world  in  general,  appeared  to  be  in 
the  same  state  of  conglomeration  in  the  same  old  corner. 

But  there  was  no  little  Em'ly  to  be  seen,  so  I  asked  Mr.  Peggotty  where 
she  was. 

'  She  's  at  school,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  wiping  the  heat  consequent  on  the 
porterage  of  Peggotty 's  box  from  his  forehead  ;  '  she  '11  be  home,'  looking  at  the 
Dutch  clock,  '  in  from  twenty  minutes  to  half  an  hour's  time.  We  all  on  us  feel 
the  loss  of  her,  bless  ye  !  ' 

Mrs.  Gummidge  moaned. 

'  Cheer  up,  mawther  !  '  cried  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  I  feel  it  more  than  anybody  else,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge  ;  '  I  'm  a  lone  lorn  creetur', 
and  she  used  to  be  a'most  the  only  thing  that  didn't  go  contrairy  with  me.' 

Mrs.  Gummidge,  whimpering  and  shaking  her  head,  applied  herself  to  blowing  the 
fire.  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  round  upon  us  while  she  was  so  engaged,  said  in  a  low  voice, 
which  he  shaded  with  his  hand  :  '  The  old  'un  !  '  From  this  I  rightly  conjectured  that 
no  improvement  had  taken  place  since  my  last  visit  in  the  state  of  Mrs.  Ginnmidge's 
spirits. 

Now,  the  whole  place  was,  or  it  should  have  been,  quite  as  delightful  a  place  as 
ever  ;  and  yet  it  did  not  impress  me  in  the  same  way.  I  felt  rather  disappointed  with 
it.  Perhaps  it  was  because  little  Em'ly  was  not  at  home.  I  knew  the  way  by  which 
she  would  come,  and  presently  found  myself  strolling  along  the  path  to  meet  her. 

A  figure  appeared  in  the  distance  before  long,  and  I  soon  knew  it  to  be  Em'ly, 
who  was  a  little  creature  still  in  stature,  though  she  was  grown.  But  when  she  drew 
nearer,  and  I  saw  her  blue  eyes  looking  bluer,  and  her  dimpled  face  looking  brighter, 
and  her  whole  self  prettier  and  gayer,  a  curious  feeling  came  over  me  that  made  me 
pretend  not  to  know  her,  and  pass  by  as  if  I  were  looking  at  something  a  long  way  off. 
I  have  done  such  a  thing  since  in  later  life,  or  I  am  mistaken. 


92  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Little  Em'ly  didn't  care  a  bit.  She  saw  me  well  enough  ;  but  instead  of  turning 
round  and  calUng  after  me,  ran  away  laughing.  This  obliged  me  to  run  after  her,  and 
she  ran  so  fast  that  we  were  very  near  the  cottage  before  I  caught  her. 

'  Oh,  it 's  you,  is  it  ?  '  said  Uttle  Em'ly. 

'  Why,  you  knew  who  it  was,  Em'ly  ?  '  said  I. 

'  And  didn't  you  know  who  it  was  ?  '  said  Em'ly.  I  was  going  to  kiss  her,  but 
she  covered  her  cherry  lips  with  her  hands,  and  said  she  wasn't  a  baby  now,  and  ran 
away,  laughing  more  than  ever,  into  the  house. 

She  seemed  to  delight  in  teasing  me,  which  was  a  change  in  her  I  wondered  at 
very  much.  The  tea-table  was  ready,  and  our  little  locker  was  put  out  in  its  old 
place,  but  instead  of  coming  to  sit  by  me,  she  went  and  bestowed  her  company  upon 
that  grumbling  Mrs.  Gmnmidge  :  and  on  Mr.  Peggotty's  inquiring  why,  nmipled  her 
hair  all  over  her  face  to  hide  it,  and  would  do  nothing  but  laugh. 

'  A  little  puss  it  is  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  patting  her  with  his  great  hand. 

'  So  sh'  is  !  so  sh'  is  !  '  cried  Ham.  '  Mas'r  Davy  bor,  so  sh'  is  !  '  and  he  sat  and 
chuckled  at  her  for  some  time,  in  a  state  of  mingled  admiration  and  delight,  that  made 
his  face  a  burning  red. 

Little  Em'ly  was  spoiled  by  them  all,  in  fact ;  and  by  no  one  more  than  Mr. 
Peggotty  himself,  whom  she  could  have  coaxed  into  anything  by  only  going  and  laying 
her  cheek  against  his  rough  whisker.  That  was  my  opinion,  at  least,  when  I  saw 
her  do  it ;  and  I  held  Mr.  Peggotty  to  be  thoroughly  in  the  right.  But  she  was  so 
affectionate  and  sweet-natured,  and  had  such  a  pleasant  manner  of  being  both  sly 
and  shy  at  once,  that  she  captivated  me  more  than  ever. 

She  was  tender-hearted,  too  ;  for  when,  as  we  sat  round  the  fire  after  tea,  an 
allusion  was  made  by  Mr.  Peggotty  over  his  pipe  to  the  loss  I  had  sustained,  the  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes,  and  she  looked  at  me  so  kindly  across  the  table,  that  I  felt  quite 
thankful  to  her. 

'  Ah  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  taking  up  her  curls,  and  running  them  over  his  hand 
like  water,  '  here  's  another  orphan,  you  see,  sir.  And  here,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  giving 
Ham  a  back-handed  knock  in  the  chest,  '  is  another  of  'm,  though  he  don't  look 
much  like  it.' 

'  If  I  had  you  for  my  guardian,  Mr.  Peggotty,'  said  I,  shaking  my  head,  '  I  don't 
think  I  should  feel  much  like  it.' 

'  Well  said,  Mas'r  Davy,  bor  !  '  cried  Ham  in  an  ecstasy.  '  Hoorah  !  Well  said  ! 
Nor  more  you  wouldn't !  Hor  !  Hor !  ' — Here  he  returned  Mr.  Peggotty's  back- 
hander, and  little  Em'ly  got  up  and  kissed  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  And  how  's  your  friend,  sir  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to  me. 

'  Steerforth  ?  '  said  I. 

'  That 's  the  name  !  '  cried  Mr.  Peggotty,  turning  to  Ham.  '  I  knowed  it  was 
something  in  our  way.' 

'  You  said  it  was  Rudderford,'  observed  Ham,  laughing. 

'  Well  !  '  retorted  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  And  ye  steer  with  a  rudder,  don't  ye  ?  It 
ain't  fur  off.     How  is  he,  sir  ?  ' 

'  He  was  very  well  indeed  when  I  came  away,  Mr.  Peggotty.' 

'  There  's  a  friend  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  stretching  out  his  pipe.  '  There  's  a 
friend,  if  you  talk  of  friends  !  Why,  Lord  love  my  heart  alive,  if  it  ain't  a  treat  to 
look  at  him  !  ' 

'  He  is  very  handsome,  is  he  not  ?  '  said  I,  my  heart  warming  with  this  praise. 


I  BECOME  NEGLECTED,  AND  AM  PROVIDED  FOR     93 

'  Handsome  !  '  cried  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  He  stands  up  to  you  like — like  a — why  I 
don't  know  what  he  don't  stand  up  to  you  like.     He  's  so  bold  !  ' 

'  Yes  !  That 's  just  his  character,'  said  I.  '  He  's  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  you 
can't  think  how  frank  he  is,  Mr.  Peggotty.' 

'  And  I  do  suppose,  now,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  at  me  through  the  smoke  of 
his  pipe,  '  that  in  the  way  of  book-larning  he  'd  take  the  wind  out  of  a'most  anything  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  I,  delighted  ;   '  he  knows  everything.     He  is  astonishingly  clever.' 

'  There  's  a  friend  !  '  murmured  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  grave  toss  of  his  head. 

'  Nothing  seems  to  cost  him  any  trouble,'  said  I.  '  He  knows  a  task  if  he  only 
looks  at  it.  He  is  the  best  cricketer  you  ever  saw.  He  will  give  you  almost  as  many 
men  as  you  like  at  draughts,  and  beat  you  easily.' 

Mr.  Peggotty  gave  his  head  another  toss,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Of  course  he  will.' 

'  He  is  such  a  speaker,'  I  pursued,  '  that  he  can  win  anybody  over  ;  and  I  don't 
know  what  you  'd  say  if  you  were  to  hear  him  sing,  Mr.  Peggotty.' 

Mr.  Peggotty  gave  his  head  another  toss,  as  much  as  to  say  :  '  I  have  no  doubt 
of  it.' 

Then,  he  's  such  a  generous,  fine,  noble  fellow,'  said  I,  quite  carried  away  by  my 
favourite  theme,  '  that  it 's  hardly  possible  to  give  him  as  much  praise  as  he  deserves. 
I  am  sure  I  can  never  feel  thankful  enough  for  the  generosity  with  which  he  has 
protected  me,  so  much  younger  and  lower  in  the  school  than  himself.' 

I  was  running  on,  very  fast  indeed,  when  my  eyes  rested  on  little  Em'ly's  face, 
which  was  bent  forward  over  the  table,  listening  with  the  deepest  attention,  her  breath 
held,  her  blue  eyes  sparkling  like  jewels,  and  the  colour  mantling  in  her  cheeks.  She 
looked  so  extraordinarily  earnest  and  pretty,  that  I  stopped  in  a  sort  of  wonder ;  and 
they  all  observed  her  at  the  same  time,  for  as  I  stopped,  they  laughed  and  looked  at  her. 

'  Em'ly  is  like  me,'  said  Peggotty,  '  and  would  like  to  see  him.' 

Em'ly  was  confused  by  our  all  observing  her,  and  hung  down  her  head,  and  her 
face  covered  with  blushes.  Glancing  up  presently  through  her  stray  curls,  and  seeing 
that  we  were  all  looking  at  her  still  (I  am  sure  I,  for  one,  could  have  looked  at  her  for 
hours),  she  ran  away,  and  kept  away  till  it  was  nearly  bedtime. 

I  lay  down  in  the  old  little  bed  in  the  stem  of  the  boat,  and  the  wind  came 
moaning  on  across  the  flat  as  it  had  done  before.  But  I  could  not  help  fancying  now, 
that  it  moaned  of  those  who  were  gone  ;  and  instead  of  thinking  that  the  sea  might 
rise  in  the  night  and  float  the  boat  away,  I  thought  of  the  sea  that  had  risen,  since  I 
last  heard  those  sounds,  and  drowned  my  happy  home.  I  recollect,  as  the  wind  and 
water  began  to  soimd  fainter  in  my  ears,  putting  a  short  clause  into  my  prayers, 
petitioning  that  I  might  grow  up  to  marry  little  Em'ly,  and  so  dropping  lovingly 
asleep. 

The  days  passed  pretty  much  as  they  had  passed  before,  except — it  was  a  great 
exception — that  little  Em'ly  and  I  seldom  wandered  on  the  beach  now.  She  had  tasks 
to  learn,  and  needlework  to  do  ;  and  was  absent  during  a  great  part  of  each  day. 
But  I  felt  that  we  should  not  have  had  these  old  wanderings,  even  if  it  had  been  other- 
wise. Wild  and  full  of  childish  whims  as  Em'ly  was,  she  was  more  of  a  little  woman 
than  I  had  supposed.  She  seemed  to  have  got  a  great  distance  away  from  me,  in  little 
more  than  a  year.  She  liked  me,  but  she  laughed  at  me,  and  tormented  me  ;  and  when 
I  went  to  meet  her,  stole  home  another  way,  and  was  laughing  at  the  door  when  I  came 
back,  disappointed.  The  best  times  were  when  she  sat  quietly  at  work  in  the  doorway, 
and  I  sat  on  the  wooden  steps  at  her  feet,  reading  to  her.     It  seems  to  me  at  this  hour. 


94  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

that  I  have  never  seen  such  sunlight  as  on  those  bright  April  afternoons  ;  that  I  have 
never  seen  such  a  sunny  little  figure  as  I  used  to  see,  sitting  in  the  doorway  of  the  old 
boat ;  that  I  have  never  beheld  such  sky,  such  water,  such  glorified  ships  sailing  away 
into  golden  air. 

On  the  very  first  evening  after  our  arrival,  Mr.  Barkis  appeared  in  an  exceedingly 
vacant  and  awkward  condition,  and  with  a  bundle  of  oranges  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief. 
As  he  made  no  allusion  of  any  kind  to  this  property,  he  was  supposed  to  have  left  it 
behind  him  by  accident  when  he  went  away  ;  until  Ham,  running  after  him  to  restore 
it,  came  back  with  the  information  that  it  was  intended  for  Peggotty.  After  that 
occasion  he  appeared  every  evening  at  exactly  the  same  hour,  and  always  with  a  little 
bundle,  to  which  he  never  alluded,  and  which  he  regularly  put  behind  the  door,  and 
left  there.  These  offerings  of  affection  were  of  a  most  various  and  eccentric  descrip- 
tion. Among  them  I  remember  a  double  set  of  pigs'  trotters,  a  huge  pincushion,  half 
a  bushel  or  so  of  apples,  a  pair  of  jet  earrings,  some  Spanish  onions,  a  box  of  dominoes, 
a  canary  bird  and  cage,  and  a  leg  of  pickled  pork. 

Mr.  Barkis's  wooing,  as  I  remember  it,  was  altogether  of  a  peculiar  kind.  He  very 
seldom  said  anything  ;  but  would  sit  by  the  fire  in  much  the  same  attitude  as  he  sat  in 
his  cart,  and  stare  heavily  at  Peggotty,  who  was  opposite.  One  night,  being,  as  I 
suppose,  inspired  by  love,  he  made  a  dart  at  the  bit  of  wax-candle  she  kept  for  her 
thread,  and  put  it  in  his  waistcoat-pocket  and  carried  it  off.  After  that,  his  great 
delight  was  to  produce  it  when  it  was  wanted,  sticking  to  the  lining  of  his  pocket,  in 
a  partially  melted  state,  and  pocket  it  again  when  it  was  done  with.  He  seemed  to 
enjoy  himself  very  much,  and  not  to  feel  at  all  called  upon  to  talk.  Even  when  he 
took  Peggotty  out  for  a  walk  on  the  flats,  he  had  no  uneasiness  on  that  head,  I  believe  ; 
contenting  himself  with  now  and  then  asking  her  if  she  was  pretty  comfortable  ;  and 
I  remember  that  sometimes,  after  he  was  gone,  Peggotty  would  throw  her  apron  over 
her  face,  and  laugh  for  half  an  hour.  Indeed,  we  were  all  more  or  less  amused,  except 
that  miserable  Mrs.  Gummidge,  whose  courtship  would  appear  to  have  been  of  an 
exactly  parallel  nature,  she  was  so  continually  reminded  by  these  transactions  of  the 
old  one. 

At  length,  when  the  term  of  my  visit  was  nearly  expired,  it  was  given  out  that 
Peggotty  and  Mr.  Barkis  were  going  to  make  a  day's  holiday  together,  and  that  little 
Em'ly  and  I  were  to  accompany  them.  I  had  but  a  broken  sleep  the  night  before,  in 
anticipation  of  the  pleasure  of  a  whole  day  with  Em'ly.  We  were  all  astir  betimes  in 
the  morning ;  and  while  we  were  yet  at  breakfast,  Mr.  Barkis  appeared  in  the  distance, 
driving  a  chaise-cart  towards  the  object  of  his  affections. 

Peggotty  was  dressed  as  usual,  in  her  neat  and  quiet  mourning ;  but  Mr.  Barkis 
bloomed  in  a  new  blue  coat,  of  which  the  tailor  had  given  him  such  good  measure, 
that  the  cuffs  would  have  rendered  gloves  unnecessary  in  the  coldest  weather,  while 
the  collar  was  so  high  that  it  pushed  his  hair  up  on  end  on  the  top  of  his  head.  His 
bright  buttons,  too,  were  of  the  largest  size.  Rendered  complete  by  drab  pantaloons 
and  a  buff  waistcoat,  I  thought  Mr.  Barkis  a  phenomenon  of  respectability. 

When  we  were  all  in  a  bustle  outside  the  door,  I  found  that  Mr.  Peggotty  was 
prepared  with  an  old  shoe,  which  was  to  be  thrown  after  us  for  luck,  and  which  he  offered 
to  Mrs.  Gummidge  for  that  purpose. 

'  No.  It  had  better  be  done  by  somebody  else,  Dan'l,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge. 
'  I  'm  a  lone  lorn  creetur'  myself,  and  everythink  that  reminds  me  of  creeturs  that 
ain't  lone  and  lorn,  goes  contrairy  with  me.' 


I  BECOME  NE(;LECTEI),  and  am   IMIOVIUED  FOR     U5 

'  Come,  old  j^al  !  '  cried  Mr.  Pcf^gotty.     '  Take  and  hieave  it.' 

'  No,  Dan'l,'  returned  Mrs.  Gummidfje,  whimpering  and  shaking  her  head.  '  If  I 
felt  less,  I  could  do  more.  You  don't  feci  like  nie,  Dan'l ;  thinks  don't  go  contrairy 
with  you,  nor  you  with  them  ;    you  had  better  do  it  yourself.' 

But  here  Pcggotty,  who  had  been  going  about  from  one  to  another  in  a  hurried 
way,  kissing  everybody,  called  out  from  the  cart,  in  which  wc  all  were  by  this  time 
(Em'ly  and  I  on  two  little  chairs,  side  by  side),  that  Mrs.  Gunimidge  must  do  it.  So 
Mrs.  Gimimidge  did  it ;  and,  I  am  sorry  to  relate,  east  a  damp  upon  the  festive  character 
of  our  departure,  by  immediately  bursting  into  tears,  and  sinking  subdued  into  the 
arms  of  Ham,  with  the  declaration  that  she  knowcd  she  was  a  burden,  and  had  better 
be  carried  to  the  House  at  once.  Which  I  really  thought  was  a  sensible  idea,  that 
Ham  might  have  acted  on. 

Away  we  went,  however,  on  our  holiday  excursion  ;  and  the  first  thing  we  did  was 
to  stop  at  a  church,  where  Mr.  Barkis  tied  the  horse  to  some  rails,  and  went  in  with 
Peggotty,  leaving  little  Em'ly  and  me  alone  in  the  chaise.  I  took  that  occasion  to  put 
my  arm  round  Em'ly's  waist,  and  propose  that  as  I  was  going  away  so  very  soon  now, 
we  should  determine  to  be  very  affectionate  to  one  another,  and  very  happy,  all  day. 
Little  Em'ly  consenting,  and  allowing  me  to  kiss  her,  I  became  desperate  ;  informing 
her,  I  recollect,  that  I  never  could  love  another,  and  that  I  was  prepared  to  shed  the 
blood  of  anybody  who  should  aspire  to  her  affections. 

How  merry  little  Em'ly  made  herself  about  it !  With  what  a  denmre  assumption 
of  being  immensely  older  and  wiser  than  I,  the  fairy  little  woman  said  I  was  '  a  silly 
boy  '  ;  and  then  laughed  so  charmingly  that  I  forgot  the  pain  of  being  called  by  that 
disparaging  name,  in  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  her. 

Mr.  Barkis  and  Peggotty  were  a  good  while  in  the  church,  but  came  out  at  last, 
and  then  we  drove  away  into  the  country.  As  we  were  going  along,  Mr.  Barkis  turned 
to  me,  and  said,  with  a  wink,— by  the  bye,  I  should  hai'dly  have  thought,  before,  that 
he  could  wink — 

'  ^Vllat  name  was  it  as  I  wrote  up  in  the  cart  ?  ' 

'  Clara  Peggotty,'  I  answered. 

'  What  name  would  it  be  as  I  should  write  up  now,  if  there  was  a  tilt  here  ?  ' 

'  Clara  Peggotty,  again  ?  '  I  suggested. 

'  Clara  Peggotty  Barkis  !  '  he  returned,  and  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter  that 
shook  the  chaise. 

In  a  word,  they  were  married,  and  had  gone  into  the  church  for  no  other  purpose. 
Peggotty  was  resolved  that  it  should  be  quietly  done  ;  and  the  clerk  had  given  her 
away,  and  there  had  been  no  witnesses  of  the  ceremony.  She  was  a  little  confused 
when  Mr.  Barkis  made  this  abrupt  announcement  of  their  union,  and  could  not  hug  me 
enough  in  token  of  her  unimpaired  affection  ;  but  she  soon  became  herself  again,  and 
said  she  was  very  glad  it  was  over. 

We  drove  to  a  little  inn  in  a  bye-road,  where  we  were  expected,  and  where  we  had 
a  very  comfortable  dinner,  and  passed  the  day  with  great  satisfaction.  If  Peggotty 
had  been  married  every  day  for  the  last  ten  years,  she  could  hardly  have  been  more 
at  her  ease  about  it ;  it  made  no  sort  of  difference  in  her  :  she  was  just  the  same  as 
ever,  and  went  out  for  a  stroll  with  little  Em'ly  and  me  before  tea,  while  Mr.  Barkis 
philosophically  smoked  his  pipe,  and  enjoyed  himself.  I  suppose,  with  the  contemplation 
of  his  happiness.  If  so,  it  sharpened  his  appetite  ;  for  I  distinctly  called  to  mind 
that,  although  he  had  eaten  a  good  deal  of  pork  and  greens  at  dinner,  and  had  finished 


96  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

off  with  a  fowl  or  two,  he  was  obhged  to  have  cold  boiled  bacon  for  tea,  and  disposed  of 
a  large  quantity  without  any  emotion. 

I  have  often  thought,  since,  what  an  odd,  innocent,  out-of-the-way  kind  of  wedding 
it  must  have  been  1  We  got  into  the  chaise  again  soon  after  dark,  and  drove  cosily 
back,  looking  up  at  the  stars,  and  talking  about  them.  I  was  their  chief  exponent, 
and  opened  Mr.  Barkis's  mind  to  an  amazing  extent.  I  told  him  all  I  knew,  but  he 
would  have  believed  anything  I  might  have  taken  it  into  my  head  to  impart  to  him  ; 
for  he  had  a  profound  veneration  for  my  abilities,  and  informed  his  wife  in  my  hearing, 
on  that  very  occasion,  that  I  was  '  a  young  Roeshus  ' — by  which  I  think  he  meant 
prodigy. 

When  we  had  exhausted  the  subject  of  the  stars,  or  rather  when  I  had  exhausted 
the  mental  faculties  of  Mr.  Barkis,  little  Em'ly  and  I  made  a  cloak  of  an  old  wrapper,  and 
sat  under  it  for  the  rest  of  the  journey.  Ah,  how  I  loved  her  !  What  happiness  (I 
thought)  if  we  were  married,  and  were  going  away  anywhere  to  live  among  the  trees, 
and  in  the  fields,  never  growing  older,  never  growing  wiser,  children  ever,  rambling 
hand  in  hand  through  sunshine  and  among  flowery  meadows,  laying  down  our  heads 
on  moss  at  night,  in  a  sweet  sleep  of  purity  and  peace,  and  buried  by  the  birds  when  we 
were  dead  !  Some  such  picture,  with  no  real  world  in  it,  bright  with  the  light  of  our 
innocence,  and  vague  as  the  stars  afar  off,  was  in  my  mind  all  the  way.  I  am  glad 
to  think  there  were  two  such  guileless  hearts  at  Peggotty's  marriage  as  little  Em'ly's 
and  mine.  I  am  glad  to  think  the  Loves  and  Graces  took  such  airy  forms  in  its  homely 
procession. 

Well,  we  came  to  the  old  boat  again  in  good  time  at  night ;  and  there  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Barkis  bade  us  good-bye,  and  drove  away  snugly  to  their  own  home.  I  felt  then, 
for  the  first  time,  that  I  had  lost  Peggotty.  I  should  have  gone  to  bed  with  a  sore  heart 
indeed  under  any  other  roof  but  that  which  sheltered  little  Em'ly's  head. 

Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham  knew  what  was  in  my  thoughts  as  well  as  I  did,  and  were 
ready  with  some  supper  and  their  hospitable  faces  to  drive  it  away.  Little  Em'ly 
came  and  sat  beside  me  on  the  locker  for  the  only  time  in  all  that  visit ;  and  it  was 
altogether  a  wonderful  close  to  a  wonderful  day. 

It  was  a  night  tide  ;  and  soon  after  we  went  to  bed,  Mr.  Peggotty  and  Ham  went 
out  to  fish.  I  felt  very  brave  at  being  left  alone  in  the  solitary  house,  the  protector 
of  Em'ly  and  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and  only  wished  that  a  lion  or  a  serpent,  or  any  ill-disposd 
monster,  would  make  an  attack  upon  us,  that  I  might  destroy  him,  and  cover  myself 
with  glory.  But  as  nothing  of  the  sort  happened  to  be  walking  about  on  Yarmouth 
flats  that  night,  I  provided  the  best  substitute  I  could  by  dreaming  of  dragons  until 
morning. 

With  morning  came  Peggotty  ;  who  called  to  me,  as  usual,  under  my  window, 
as  if  Mr.  Barkis  the  carrier  had  been  from  first  to  last  a  dream  too.  After  breakfast 
she  took  me  to  her  own  home,  and  a  beautiful  little  home  it  was.  Of  all  the  moveables 
in  it,  I  must  have  been  most  impressed  by  a  certain  old  bureau  of  some  dark  wood  in 
the  parlour  (the  tile-floored  kitchen  was  the  general  sitting-room),  with  a  retreating  top 
which  opened,  let  down,  and  became  a  desk,  within  which  was  a  large  quarto  edition 
of  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs.  This  precious  volume,  of  which  I  do  not  recollect  one  word, 
I  immediately  discovered  and  immediately  applied  myself  to  ;  and  I  never  visited  the 
house  afterwards,  but  I  kneeled  on  a  chair,  opened  the  casket  where  this  gem  was 
enshrined,  spread  my  arms  over  the  desk,  and  fell  to  devouring  the  book  afresh.  I  was 
chiefly  edified,  I  am  afraid,  by  the  pictures,  which  were  numerous,  and  represented  all 


I  BECOME  NEGLECTED,  AND  AM  PROVIDED  FOR     97 

kinds  of  dismal  horrors  ;   but  the  Martyrs  and  Peggotty's  house  have  been  inseparable 
in  my  mind  ever  since,  and  are  now. 

I  took  leave  of  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  Ham,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and  little  Em'ly, 
that  day  ;  and  passed  the  night  at  Peggotty's  in  a  little  room  in  the  roof  (with  the 
crocodile-book  on  a  shelf  by  the  bed's  iiead),  which  was  to  be  always  mine,  Peggotty 
said,  and  should  always  be  kept  for  me  in  exactly  the  same  state. 

'  Young  or  old,  Davy  dear,  as  long  as  I  am  alive  and  have  this  house  over  my 
head,'  said  Peggotty,  '  you  shall  find  it  as  if  I  expected  you  here  directly  minute. 
I  shall  keep  it  every  day,  as  I  used  to  keep  your  old  little  room,  my  darling  ;  and  if 
you  was  to  go  to  China,  you  might  think  of  it  as  being  kept  just  the  same,  all  the  time 
you  were  away.' 

I  felt  the  truth  and  constancy  of  my  dear  old  nurse,  with  all  my  heart,  and  thanked 
her  as  well  as  I  could.  That  was  not  very  well,  for  she  spoke  to  me  thus,  with  her  arms 
round  my  neck,  in  the  morning,  and  I  was  going  home  in  the  morning,  and  I  went  hc^me 
in  the  morning,  with  herself  and  Mr.  Barkis  in  the  cart.  They  left  me  at  the  gate,  not 
easily  or  lightly  ;  and  it  was  a  strange  sight  to  me  to  see  the  cart  go  on,  taking  Peggotty 
away,  and  leaving  me  under  the  old  elm-trees  looking  at  the  house  in  which  there  was 
no  face  to  look  on  mine  with  love  or  liking  any  more. 

And  now  I  fell  into  a  state  of  neglect,  which  I  cannot  look  back  upon  without 
compassion.  I  fell  at  once  into  a  solitary  condition, — apart  from  all  friendly  notice, 
apart  from  the  society  of  all  other  boys  of  my  own  age,  apart  from  all  companionship 
but  my  own  spiritless  thoughts, — which  seems  to  cast  its  gloom  upon  this  paper  as  I 
write. 

What  would  I  have  given,  to  have  been  sent  to  the  hardest  school  that  ever  was 
kept  ? — to  have  been  taught  something,  anyhow,  anywhere  ?  No  such  hope  dawned 
upon  me.  They  disliked  me  ;  and  they  sullenly,  sternly,  steadily,  overlooked  me. 
I  think  Mr.  Murdstone's  means  were  straitened  at  about  this  time  ;  but  it  is  little  to 
the  purpose.  He  could  not  bear  me  ;  and  in  putting  me  from  him,  he  tried,  as  I  believe, 
to  put  away  the  notion  that  I  had  any  claim  upon  him — and  succeeded. 

I  was  not  actively  ill  used.  I  was  not  beaten,  or  starved  ;  but  the  wrong  that 
was  done  to  me  had  no  intervals  of  relenting,  and  was  done  in  a  systematic,  passionless 
manner.  Day  after  day,  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  I  was  coldly  neglected. 
I  wonder  sometimes,  when  I  think  of  it,  what  they  would  have  done  if  I  had  been  taken 
with  an  illness  ;  whether  I  should  have  lain  down  in  my  lonely  room,  and  languished 
through  it  in  my  usual  solitary  way,  or  whether  anybody  would  have  helped  me  out. 

When  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  were  at  home,  I  took  my  meals  with  them ;  in  their 
absence,  I  ate  and  drank  by  myself.  At  all  times  I  lounged  about  the  house  and 
neighbourhood  quite  disregarded,  except  that  they  were  jealous  of  my  making  any 
friends  :  thinking,  perhaps,  that  if  I  did,  I  might  complain  to  some  one.  For  this 
reason,  though  Mr.  Chillip  often  asked  me  to  go  and  see  him  (he  was  a  widower,  having, 
some  years  before  that,  lost  a  little  small  light-haired  wife,  whom  I  can  just  remember 
connecting  in  my  own  thoughts  with  a  pale  tortoiseshell  cat),  it  was  but  seldom  that  I 
enjoyed  the  happiness  of  passing  an  afternoon  in  his  closet  of  a  surgery  ;  reading  some 
book  that  was  new  to  me,  with  the  smell  of  the  whole  pharmacopoeia  coming  up  my 
nose,  or  pounding  something  in  a  mortar  under  his  mild  directions. 

For  the  same  reason,  added  no  doubt  to  the  old  dislike  of  her,  I  was  seldom  allowed 
to  visit  Peggotty.  Faithful  to  her  promise,  she  either  came  to  see  me,  or  met  me 
somewhere  near,  once  every  week,  and  never  empty-handed ;    but  many  and  bitter 

D 


98  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

•were  the  disappointments  I  had,  in  being  refused  permission  to  pay  a  visit  to  her  at  her 
house.  Some  few  times,  however,  at  long  intervals,  I  was  allowed  to  go  there  !  and 
then  I  found  out  that  Mr.  Barkis  was  something  of  a  miser,  or,  as  Peggotty  dutifully 
expressed  it,  was  '  a  little  near,'  and  kept  a  heap  of  money  in  a  box  under  his  bed, 
which  he  pretended  was  only  full  of  coats  and  trousers.  In  this  coffer,  his  riches  hid 
themselves  with  such  a  tenacious  modesty,  that  the  smallest  instalments  could  only 
be  tempted  out  by  artifice  ;  so  that  Peggotty  had  to  prepare  a  long  and  elaborate 
scheme,  a  very  Gunpowder  Plot,  for  every  Saturday's  expenses. 

All  this  time  I  was  so  conscious  of  the  waste  of  any  promise  I  had  given,  and  of 
my  being  utterly  neglected,  that  I  should  have  been  perfectly  miserable,  I  have  no 
doubt,  but  for  the  old  books.  They  were  my  only  comfort ;  and  I  was  as  true  to 
them  as  they  were  to  me,  and  read  them  over  and  over  I  don't  know  how  many 
times  more. 

I  now  approach  a  period  of  my  life,  which  I  can  never  lose  the  remembrance  of, 
while  I  remember  anythnig ;  and  the  recollection  of  which  has  often,  without  my 
invocation,  come  before  me  like  a  ghost,  and  haunted  happier  times. 

I  had  been  out,  one  day,  loitering  somewhere,  in  the  listless  meditative  manner 
that  my  way  of  life  engendered,  when,  turning  the  comer  of  a  lane  near  our  house,  I 
came  upon  Mr.  Murdstone  walking  with  a  gentleman.  I  was  confused,  and  was  going 
by  them,  when  the  gentleman  cried — 

'  Wliat  ?     Brooks  ?  ' 

'  No,  sir,  David  Copperfield,'  I  said. 

'  Don't  tell  me.  You  are  Brooks,'  said  the  gentleman.  '  You  are  Brooks  of 
ShefiBeld.     That 's  your  name.' 

At  these  words,  I  observed  the  gentleman  more  attentively.  His  laugh  coming 
to  my  remembrance  too,  I  knew  him  to  be  Mr.  Quinion,  whom  I  had  gone  over  to 
Lowestoft  with  Mr.  Murdstone  to  see,  before — it  is  no  matter — I  need  not  recall  when. 

'  And  how  do  you  get  on,  and  where  are  you  being  educated,  Brooks  ?  '  said 
Mr.  Quinion. 

He  had  put  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  turned  me  about,  to  walk  with  them. 
I  did  not  know  what  to  reply,  and  glanced  dubiously  at  Mr.  Murdstone. 

'  He  is  at  home  at  present,'  said  the  latter.  '  He  is  not  being  educated  anywhere. 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him.     He  is  a  difficult  subject.' 

That  old,  double  look  was  on  me  for  a  moment ;  and  then  his  eye  darkened  with 
a  frown,  as  it  turned,  in  its  aversion,  elsewhere. 

'  Humph  !  '  said  Mr.  Quinion,  looking  at  us  both,  I  thought.     '  Fine  weather.' 

Silence  ensued,  and  I  was  considering  how  I  could  best  disengage  my  shoulder  from 
his  hand,  and  go  away,  when  he  said— 

'  I  suppose  you  are  a  pretty  sharp  fellow  still  ?     Eh,  Brooks  ?  ' 

'  Ay  !  He  is  sharp  enough,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  impatiently.  '  You  had  better 
let  him  go.     He  will  not  thank  you  for  troubling  him.' 

On  this  hint,  Mr.  Quinion  released  me,  and  I  made  the  best  of  my  way  home. 
Looking  back  as  I  turned  into  the  front  garden,  I  saw  Mr.  Murdstone  leaning  against 
the  wicket  of  the  churchyard,  and  Mr.  Quinion  talking  to  him.  They  were  both 
looking  after  me,  and  I  felt  that  they  were  speaking  of  me. 

Mr.  Quinion  lay  at  our  house  that  night.  After  breakfast,  the  next  morning,  I 
had  put  my  chair  away,  and  was  going  out  of  the  room,  when  Mr.  Murdstone  called  me 
back.     He  then  gravely  repaired  to  another  table,  where  his  sister  sat  herself  at  her 


I  BECOME  NECiLECTED,  AND  AM  PROVIDED  FOR     99 

desk.     Mr.  Quinion,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  stood  looking  out  of  window  :   and 
I  stood  looking  at  them  all. 

'  David,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  '  to  the  young  this  is  a  world  for  action  ;  not  for 
moping  and  droninj,'  in.' 

'  — As  you  do,'  added  his  sister. 

'  Jane  Murdstone,  leave  it  to  me,  if  you  please.  I  say,  David,  to  the  young  this 
is  a  world  for  action,  and  not  for  mopinff  and  droning  in.  It  is  especially  so  for  a  young 
boy  of  your  disposition,  which  requires  a  great  deal  of  correcting  ;  and  to  which  no 
greater  service  can  be  done  than  to  force  it  to  conform  to  the  ways  of  the  working 
world,  and  to  bend  it  and  break  it.' 

'  For  Stubbornness  won't  do  here,'  said  his  sister.  '  What  it  wants  is,  to  be  crushed. 
And  crushed  it  must  be.     Shall  be,  too  !  ' 

He  gave  her  a  look,  half  in  remonstrance,  half  in  approval,  and  went  on — 

'  I  suppose  you  know,  David,  that  I  am  not  rich.  At  any  rate,  you  know  it  now. 
You  have  received  some  considerable  education  already.  Education  is  costly  ;  and 
even  if  it  were  not,  and  I  could  afford  it,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  would  not  be  at  all 
advantageous  to  you  to  be  kept  at  a  school.  What  is  before  you,  is  a  fight  with  the 
world  ;  and  the  sooner  you  begin  it,  the  better.' 

I  think  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  already  begun  it,  in  my  poor  way  :  but  it 
occurs  to  me  now,  whether  or  no. 

'  You  have  heard  "  the  counting-house "  mentioned  sometimes,'  said  Mr. 
Murdstone. 

'  The  counting-house,  sir  ?  '  I  repeated. 

'  Of  Murdstone  and  Grinby,  in  the  wine  trade,'  he  replied. 

I  suppose  I  looked  uncertain,  for  he  went  on  hastily — 

'  You  have  heard  the  "  counting-house  "  mentioned,  or  the  business,  or  the  cellars, 
or  the  wharf,  or  something  about  it.' 

'  I  think  I  have  heard  the  business  mentioned,  sir,'  I  said,  remembering  what  I 
vaguely  knew  of  his  and  his  sister's  resources.     '  But  I  don't  know  when.' 

'  It  does  not  matter  when,'  he  returned.     '  Mr.  Quinion  manages  that  business.' 

I  glanced  at  the  latter  deferentially  as  he  stood  looking  out  of  window. 

'  Mr.  Quinion  suggests  that  it  gives  employment  to  some  other  boys,  and  that 
he  sees  no  reason  why  it  shouldn't,  on  the  same  terms,  give  employment  to  you.' 

'  He  having,'  Mr.  Quinion  observed  in  a  low  voice,  and  half  turning  round,  '  no 
other  prospect,  Murdstone.' 

Mr.  Murdstone,  with  an  impatient,  even  an  angry  gesture,  resumed,  without 
noticing  what  he  had  said^ 

'  Those  terms  are,  that  you  will  earn  enough  for  yourself  to  provide  for  your  eating 
and  drinking,  and  pocket-money.  Your  lodging  (which  I  have  arranged  for)  will  be 
paid  by  me.     So  will  your  washing.' 

'  Which  will  be  kept  down  to  my  estimate,'  said  his  sister. 

'  Your  clothes  will  be  looked  after  for  you,  too,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone  ;  '  as  you  will 
not  be  able,  yet  awhile,  to  get  them  for  yourself.  So  you  are  now  going  to  London, 
David,  with  Mr.  Quinion,  to  begin  the  world  on  your  own  account.' 

'  In  short,  you  are  provided  for,'  observed  his  sister  ;  '  and  will  please  to  do  your 
duty.' 

Though  I  quite  understood  that  the  purpose  of  this  announcement  was  to  get  rid 
of  me,  I  have  no  distinct  remembrance  whether  it  pleased  or  frightened  me.     My 


100  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

impression  is,  that  I  was  in  a  state  of  confusion  about  it,  and,  oscillating  between  the 
two  points,  touched  neither.  Nor  had  I  much  time  for  the  clearing  of  my  thoughts, 
as  Mr.  Quinion  was  to  go  upon  the  morrow. 

Behold  me,  on  the  morrow,  in  a  much-worn  little  white  hat,  with  a  black  crape 
round  it  for  my  mother,  a  black  jacket,  and  a  pair  of  hard  stiff  corduroy  trousers — 
which  Miss  Murdstone  considered  the  best  armour  for  the  legs  in  that  fight  with  the 
world  which  was  now  to  come  off — behold  me  so  attired,  and  with  my  little  worldly 
all  before  me  in  a  small  trunk,  sitting,  a  lone  lorn  child  (as  Mrs.  Gummidge  might  have 
said),  in  the  post-chaise  that  was  carrying  Mr.  Quinion  to  the  London  coach  at 
Yarmouth  !  See,  how  our  house  and  church  are  lessening  in  the  distance  ;  how  the 
grave  beneath  the  tree  is  blotted  out  by  intervening  objects  ;  how  the  spire  points 
upward  from  my  old  playground  no  more,  and  the  sky  is  empty  ! 


CHAPTER    XI 

I    BEGIN    LIFE    ON    MY    OWN    ACCOUNT,    AND    DON't    LIKE    IT 

I  KNOW  enough  of  the  world  now,  to  have  almost  lost  the  capacity  of  being 
much  surprised  by  anything  ;  but  it  is  matter  of  some  surprise  to  me,  even 
now,  that  I  can  have  been  so  easUy  thrown  away  at  such  an  age.  A  child  of 
excellent  abilities,  and  with  strong  powers  of  observation,  quick,  eager,  delicate, 
and  soon  hurt  bodily  or  mentally,  it  seems  wonderful  to  me  that  nobody  should  have 
made  any  sign  in  my  behalf.  But  none  was  made  ;  and  I  became,  at  ten  years  old,  a 
little  labouring  hind  in  the  service  of  Murdstone  and  Grinby. 

Murdstone  and  Grinby's  warehouse  was  at  the  water-side.  It  was  down  in 
Blackfriars.  Modem  improvements  have  altered  the  place  ;  but  it  was  the  last  house 
at  the  bottom  of  a  narrow  street,  curving  down  hill  to  the  river,  with  some  stairs  at 
the  end,  where  people  took  boat.  It  was  a  crazy  old  house  with  a  wharf  of  its  own, 
abutting  on  the  water  when  the  tide  was  in,  and  on  the  mud  when  the  tide  was  out, 
and  literally  overrun  with  rats.  Its  panelled  rooms,  discoloured  with  the  dirt  and  smoke 
of  a  hundred  years,  I  dare  say  ;  its  decaying  floors  and  staircase  ;  the  squeaking  and 
scuffling  of  the  old  grey  rats  down  in  the  cellars  ;  and  the  dirt  and  rottenness  of  the 
place  ;  are  things,  not  of  many  years  ago,  in  my  mind,  but  of  the  present  instant. 
They  are  all  before  me,  just  as  they  were  in  the  evil  hour  when  I  went  among  them  for 
the  first  time,  with  my  trembling  hand  in  Mr.  Quinion's. 

Murdstone  and  Grinby's  trade  was  among  a  good  many  kinds  of  people,  but  an 
important  branch  of  it  was  the  supply  of  wines  and  spirits  to  certain  packet-ships. 
I  forget  now  where  they  chiefly  went,  but  I  think  there  were  some  among  them  that 
made  voyages  both  to  the  East  and  West  Indies.  I  know  that  a  great  many  empty 
bottles  were  one  of  the  consequences  of  this  traffic,  and  that  certain  men  and  boys  were 
employed  to  examine  them  against  the  light,  and  reject  those  that  were  flawed,  and  to 
rinse  and  wash  them.  When  the  empty  bottles  ran  short,  there  were  labels  to  be 
pasted  on  full  ones,  or  corks  to  be  fitted  to  them,  or  seals  to  be  put  upon  the  corks, 
or  finished  bottles  to  be  packed  in  casks.  All  this  work  was  my  work,  and  of  the  boys 
employed  upon  it  I  was  one. 

There  were  three  or  four  of  us,  counting  me.     My  working  place  was  established 


I  BEGIN  LIFE  ON  MY  OWN  ACCOUNT  loi 

in  a  comer  of  the  warehouse,  where  Mr.  Qiiinion  could  see  me,  when  he  chose  to  stand 
up  on  the  bottom  rail  of  his  stool  in  the  count iuf^'-house,  and  look  at  me  through  a 
window  above  the  desk.  Hither,  on  the  first  mominj^  of  my  so  auspiciously  beginning 
life  on  my  own  account,  the  oldest  f)f  the  regular  boys  was  summoned  to  show  me 
my  business.  His  name  was  Mi('k  Walker,  and  he  wore  a  ragged  apron  and  a  ])aper 
cap.  He  informed  me  that  his  father  was  a  bargeman,  and  walked,  in  a  black  velvet 
head-dress,  in  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show.  He  also  informed  me  that  our  princi(jal 
associate  would  be  another  boy  whom  he  introduced  by  the — to  me — extraordinary 
name  of  Mealy  Potatoes.  I  discovered,  however,  that  this  youth  had  not  been 
christened  by  that  name,  but  that  it  had  been  bestowed  upon  him  in  the  ware- 
house, on  account  of  his  complexion,  which  was  pale  or  mealy.  Mealy's  father  was  a 
waterman,  who  had  the  additional  distinction  of  being  a  fireman,  and  was  engaged 
as  such  at  one  of  the  large  theatres  ;  where  some  young  relation  of  Mealy's — I  think 
his  little  sister — did  Imps  in  the  Pantomimes. 

No  words  can  express  the  secret  agony  of  my  soul  as  I  sunk  into  this  companion- 
ship ;  compared  these  henceforth  every-day  associates  with  those  of  my  happier 
cliildhood — not  to  say  with  Steerforth,  Traddles,  and  the  rest  of  those  boys  ;  and 
felt  my  hopes  of  growing  up  to  be  a  learned  and  distinguished  man  crushed  in  my 
bosom.  The  deep  remembrance  of  the  sense  I  had,  of  being  utterly  without  hope 
now  ;  of  the  shame  I  felt  in  my  position  ;  of  the  misery  it  was  to  my  young  heart  to 
believe  that  day  by  day  what  I  had  learned,  and  thought,  and  delighted  in,  and  raised 
my  fancy  and  my  emulation  up  by,  would  pass  away  from  me,  little  by  little,  never  to 
be  brought  back  any  more  ;  cannot  be  written.  As  often  as  Mick  Walker  went  away 
in  the  course  of  that  forenoon,  I  mingled  my  tears  with  the  water  in  which  I  was 
washing  the  bottles  ;  and  sobbed  as  if  there  were  a  flaw  in  my  own  breast,  and  it  were 
in  danger  of  bursting. 

The  counting-house  clock  was  at  half-past  twelve,  and  there  was  general  prepara- 
tion for  going  to  dinner,  when  Mr.  Quinion  tapped  at  the  counting-house  window,  and 
beckoned  to  me  to  go  in.  I  went  in,  and  found  there  a  stoutish,  middle-aged  person,  in 
a  brown  surtout  and  black  tights  and  shoes,  with  no  more  hair  upon  his  head  (which 
was  a  large  one,  and  very  shining)  than  there  is  upon  an  egg,  and  with  a  very  extensive 
face,  which  he  turned  full  upon  me.  His  clothes  were  shabby,  but  he  had  an  imposing 
shirt-collar  on.  He  carried  a  jaunty  sort  of  a  stick,  with  a  large  pair  of  rusty  tassels  to 
it ;  and  a  quizzing-glass  hung  outside  his  coat, — for  ornament,  I  afterwards  found,  as 
he  very  seldom  looked  through  it,  and  couldn't  see  anything  when  he  did. 

'  This,'  said  Mr.  Quinion,  in  allusion  to  myself,  '  is  he.' 

'  This,'  said  the  stranger,  with  a  certain  condescending  roll  in  his  voice,  and  a 
certain  indescribable  air  of  doing  something  genteel,  which  impressed  me  very  much, 
'  is  Master  Copperfield.     I  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir  ?  ' 

I  said  I  was  very  well,  and  hoped  he  was.  I  was  sufficiently  ill  at  ease.  Heaven 
knows  ;  but  it  was  not  in  my  nature  to  complain  much  at  that  time  of  my  life,  so  I  said 
I  was  very  well,  and  hoped  he  was. 

'  I  am,'  said  the  stranger,  '  thank  Heaven,  quite  well.  I  have  received  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Murdstone,  in  which  he  mentions  that  he  Avould  desire  me  to  receive  into  an 
apartment  in  the  rear  of  my  house,  which  is  at  present  unoccupied — and  is,  in  short, 
to  be  let  as  a — in  short,'  said  the  stranger,  with  a  smile  and  in  a  burst  of  confidence, 

'  as  a  bedroom — the  young  beginner  whom  I  have  now  the  pleasure  to "  and  the 

stranger  waved  his  hand,  and  settled  his  chin  in  his  shirt-collar. 


102  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  This  is  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  Mr.  Quinion  to  me. 
'  Ahem  ! '  said  the  stranger,  '  that  is  my  name.' 

'  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  Mr.  Quinion,  '  is  known  to  Mr.  Murdstone.  He  takes  orders 
for  us  on  commission,  when  he  can  get  any.  He  has  been  written  to  by  Mr.  Murdstone, 
on  the  subject  of  your  lodgings,  and  he  will  receive  you  as  a  lodger.' 

'  My  address,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  is  Windsor  Terrace,  City  Road.  I — in  short,' 
said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  the  same  genteel  air,  and  in  another  burst  of  confidence — 
'  I  live  there.' 

I  made  him  a  bow. 

'  Under  the  impression,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  that  your  peregrinations  in  this 
metropolis  have  not  as  yet  been  extensive,  and  that  you  might  have  some  difficulty 
in  penetrating  the  arcana  of  the  Modem  Babylon  in  the  direction  of  the  City  Road — 
in  short,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  in  another  burst  of  confidence,  '  that  you  might  lose 
yourself — I  shall  be  happy  to  call  this  evening,  and  instal  you  in  the  knowledge  of  the 
nearest  way.' 

I  thanked  him  with  all  my  heart,  for  it  was  friendly  in  him  to  offer  to  take  that 
trouble. 

'  At  what  hour,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  shall  I ■' 

'  At  about  eight,'  said  Mr.  Quinion. 

'  At  about  eight,'  said  Mr.  Micawber.  '  I  beg  to  wish  you  good-day,  Mr.  Quinion. 
I  will  intrude  no  longer.' 

So  he  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  out  with  his  cane  under  his  arm  :  very  upright,  and 
humming  a  tune  when  he  was  clear  of  the  counting-house. 

Mr.  Quinion  then  formally  engaged  me  to  be  as  useful  as  I  could  in  the  ware- 
house of  Murdstone  and  Grinby,  at  a  salary,  I  think,  of  six  shillings  a  week.  I  am  not 
clear  whether  it  was  six  or  seven.  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  from  my  uncertainty  on 
this  head,  that  it  was  six  at  first  and  seven  afterwards.  He  paid  me  a  week  down 
(from  his  own  pocket,  I  believe),  and  I  gave  Mealy  sixpence  out  of  it  to  get  my  trunk 
carried  to  Windsor  Terrace  at  night :  it  being  too  heavy  for  my  strength,  small  as  it 
was.  I  paid  sixpence  more  for  my  dinner,  which  was  a  meat  pie  and  a  turn  at  a  neigh- 
bouring pump  ;  and  passed  the  hour  which  was  allowed  for  that  meal,  in  walking 
about  the  streets. 

At  the  appointed  time  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Micawber  reappeared.  I  washed  my 
hands  and  face,  to  do  the  greater  honour  to  his  gentility,  and  we  walked  to  our  house, 
as  I  suppose  I  must  now  call  it,  together ;  Mr.  Micawber  impressing  the  names  of 
streets,  and  the  shapes  of  comer  houses  upon  me,  as  we  went  along,  that  I  might  find 
my  way  back,  easily,  in  the  morning. 

Arrived  at  his  house  in  Windsor  Terrace  (which  I  noticed  was  shabby  like  himself, 
but  also,  like  himself,  made  all  the  show  it  could),  he  presented  me  to  Mrs.  Micawber, 
a  thin  and  faded  lady,  not  at  all  young,  who  was  sitting  in  the  parlour  (the  first  floor 
was  altogether  unfurnished,  and  the  blinds  were  kept  down  to  delude  the  neighbours), 
with  a  baby  at  her  breast.  This  baby  was  one  of  twins ;  and  I  may  remark  here 
that  I  hardly  ever,  in  all  my  experience  of  the  family,  saw  both  the  twins  detached 
from  Mrs.  Micawber  at  the  same  time.     One  of  them  was  always  taking  refreshment. 

There  were  two  other  children  ;  Master  Micawber,  aged  about  four,  and  Miss 
Micawber,  aged  about  three.  These,  and  a  dark-complexioned  young  woman,  with  a 
habit  of  snorting,  who  was  servant  to  the  family,  and  informed  me,  before  half  an 
hour  had  expired,  that  she  was  '  a  Orfling,'  and  came  from  St.  Luke's  workhouse,  in  the 


T  BEGIN  LIFE  ON  MY  OWN  ACCOUNT  lo.J 

neighbourhood,  completed  the  establishment.  My  room  was  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
at  the  back  :  a  close  chamber ;  stencilled  all  over  with  an  ornament  which  my  young 
imagination  represented  as  a  blue  muflin  ;    and  very  scantily  furnished. 

'  I  never  thought,'  said  Mrs.  Micawbcr,  when  she  came  up,  twin  and  all,  to  show 
me  the  apartment,  and  sat  down  to  take  breath,  '  before  I  was  married,  when  I  lived 
with  papa  and  mamma,  that  I  should  ever  find  it  necessary  to  take  a  lodger.  But 
Mr.  Micawber  being  in  difTiculties,  all  considerations  of  private  feeling  must  give 
way.' 

I  said,  '  Yes,  ma'am.' 

'  Mr.  Micawber's  difRculties  are  almost  overwhelming  just  at  present,'  said  Mrs. 
Micawber ;  '  and  whether  it  is  possible  to  bring  him  through  them,  I  don't  know. 
When  I  lived  at  home  with  papa  and  mamma,  I  really  should  have  hardly  understood 
what  the  word  meant,  in  the  sense  in  which  I  now  employ  it,  but  experientia  does  it 
— as  papa  used  to  say.' 

I  cannot  satisfy  myself  whether  she  told  me  that  Mr.  Micawber  had  been  an 
officer  in  the  Marines,  or  whether  I  have  imagined  it.  I  only  know  that  I  believe  to 
this  hour  that  he  was  in  the  Marines  once  upon  a  time,  without  knowing  why.  He  was 
a  sort  of  town  traveller  for  a  number  of  miscellaneous  houses,  now  ;  but  made  little 
or  nothing  of  it,  I  am  afraid. 

'  If  Mr.  MicaAvber's  creditors  will  not  give  him  time,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  they 
must  take  the  consequences  ;  and  the  sooner  they  bring  it  to  an  issue  the  better. 
Blood  cannot  be  obtained  from  a  stone,  neither  can  anything  on  account  be  obtained 
at  present  (not  to  mention  law  expenses)  from  Mr.  Micawber.' 

I  never  can  quite  understand  whether  my  precocious  self-dependence  confused 
Mrs.  Micawber  in  reference  to  my  age,  or  whether  she  was  so  full  of  the  subject  that 
she  would  have  talked  about  it  to  the  very  twins  if  there  had  been  nobody  else  to 
communicate  with,  but  this  was  the  strain  in  which  she  began,  and  she  went  on 
accordingly  all  the  time  I  knew  her. 

Poor  Mrs.  Micawber  !  She  said  she  had  tried  to  exert  herself  ;  and  so,  I  have  no 
doubt,  she  had.  The  centre  of  the  street-door  was  perfectly  covered  with  a  great  brass 
plate,  on  which  was  engraved  '  Mrs.  Micawber's  Boarding  Establishment  for  Young 
Ladies  '  :  but  I  never  found  that  any  young  lady  had  ever  been  to  school  there  ;  or 
that  any  young  lady  ever  came,  or  proposed  to  come  ;  or  that  the  least  preparation 
was  ever  made  to  receive  any  young  lady.  The  only  visitors  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of, 
were  creditors.  They  used  to  come  at  all  hours,  and  some  of  them  were  quite  ferocious. 
One  dirty-faced  man,  I  think  he  was  a  bootmaker,  used  to  edge  himself  into  the  passage 
as  early  as  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  call  up  the  stairs,  to  Mr.  Micawber — 
'  Come  !  You  ain't  out  yet,  you  know.  Pay  us,  will  you  ?  Don't  hide,  you  know  ; 
that 's  mean.  I  wouldn't  be  mean  if  I  was  you.  Pay  us,  will  you  ?  You  just  pay  us, 
d  'ye  hear  ?  Come  !  '  Receiving  no  answer  to  these  taunts,  he  would  mount  in  his 
wrath  to  the  words  '  swindlers  '  and  '  robbers  '  ;  and  these  being  ineffectual  too,  would 
sometimes  go  to  the  extremity  of  crossing  the  street,  and  roaring  up  at  the  windows 
of  the  second  floor,  where  he  knew  Mr.  Micawber  was.  At  these  times,  Mr.  Micawber 
would  be  transported  with  grief  and  mortification,  even  to  the  length  (as  I  was  once 
made  aware  by  a  scream  from  his  wife)  of  making  motions  at  himself  with  a  razor ; 
but  within  half  an  hour  afterwards,  he  would  polish  up  his  shoes  with  extraordinary 
pains,  and  go  out,  humming  a  tune  with  a  greater  air  of  gentility  than  ever.  Mrs. 
Micawber  was  quite  as  elastic.     I  have  known  her  to  be  thrown  into  fainting  fits  by 


104  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

the  king's  taxes  at  three  o'clock,  and  to  eat  lamb-chops  breaded,  and  drink  warm  ale 
(paid  for  with  two  teaspoons  that  had  gone  to  the  pawnbroker's)  at  four.  On  one 
occasion,  when  an  execution  had  just  been  put  in,  coming  home  through  some  chance  as 
early  as  six  o'clock,  I  saw  her  lying  (of  course  with  a  twin)  under  the  grate  in  a  swoon, 
^vith  her  hair  all  torn  about  her  face  ;  but  I  never  knew  her  more  cheerful  than  she 
was,  that  very  same  night,  over  a  veal-cutlet  before  the  kitchen  fire,  telling  me  stories 
about  her  papa  and  mamma,  and  the  company  they  used  to  keep. 

In  this  house,  and  with  this  family,  I  passed  my  leisure  time.  My  own  exclusive 
breakfast  of  a  penny  loaf,  and  a  pennyworth  of  milk,  I  provided  myself,  I  kept  another 
small  loaf,  and  a  modicum  of  cheese,  on  a  particular  shelf  of  a  particular  cupboard,  to 
make  my  supper  on  when  I  came  back  at  night.  This  made  a  hole  in  the  six  or  seven 
shillings,  I  know  well ;  and  I  was  out  at  the  warehouse  all  day,  and  had  to  support 
myself  on  that  money  all  the  week.  From  Monday  morning  until  Saturday  night,  I 
had  no  advice,  no  counsel,  no  encouragement,  no  consolation,  no  assistance,  no  support, 
of  any  kind,  from  any  one,  that  I  can  call  to  mind,  as  I  hope  to  go  to  heaven  ! 

I  was  so  young  and  childish,  and  so  little  qualified — how  could  I  be  otherwise  ? — 
to  undertake  the  whole  charge  of  my  own  existence,  that  often,  in  going  to  Murdstone 
and  Grinby's,  of  a  morning,  I  could  not  resist  the  stale  pastry  put  out  for  sale  at  half- 
price  at  the  pastry-cook's  doors,  and  spent  in  that,  the  money  I  should  have  kept  for 
my  dinner.  Then,  I  went  without  my  dinner,  or  bought  a  roll  or  a  slice  of  pudding. 
I  remember  two  pudding-shops,  between  which  I  was  divided,  according  to  my  finances. 
One  was  in  a  court  close  to  St.  Martin's  Church — at  the  back  of  the  church, — ^which  is 
now  removed  altogether.  The  pudding  at  that  shop  was  made  of  currants,  and  was 
rather  a  special  pudding,  but  was  dear,  twopennyworth  not  being  larger  than  a  penny- 
worth of  more  ordinary  pudding.  A  good  shop  for  the  latter  was  in  the  Strand — 
somewhere  in  that  part  which  has  been  rebuilt  since.  It  was  a  stout  pale  pudding, 
heavy  and  flabby,  and  with  great  fiat  raisins  in  it,  stuck  in  whole  at  wide  distances 
apart.  It  came  up  hot  at  about  my  time  every  day,  and  many  a  day  did  I  dine  off 
it.  When  I  dined  regularly  and  handsomely,  I  had  a  saveloy  and  a  penny  loaf,  or  a 
fourpenny  plate  of  red  beef  from  a  cook's  shop  ;  or  a  plate  of  bread  and  cheese  and  a 
glass  of  beer,  from  a  miserable  old  public-house  opposite  our  place  of  business,  called 
the  Lion,  or  the  Lion  and  something  else  that  I  have  forgotten.  Once,  I  remember 
carrying  my  own  bread  (which  I  had  brought  from  home  in  the  morning)  under  my  arm, 
wrapped  in  a  piece  of  paper,  like  a  book,  and  going  to  a  famous  alamode  beef-house 
near  Drury  Lane,  and  ordering  a  '  small  plate  '  of  that  delicacy  to  eat  with  it.  What 
the  waiter  thought  of  such  a  strange  little  apparition  coming  in  all  alone,  I  don't  know  ; 
but  I  can  see  him  now,  staring  at  me  as  I  ate  my  dinner,  and  bringing  up  the  other 
waiter  to  look.     I  gave  him  a  halfpenny  for  himself,  and  I  wish  he  hadn't  taken  it. 

We  had  half  an  hour,  I  think,  for  tea.  ^\^len  I  had  money  enough,  I  used  to  get 
half  a  pint  of  ready-made  coffee  and  a  slice  of  bread-and-butter.  When  I  had  none, 
I  used  to  look  at  a  venison-shop  in  Fleet  Street ;  or  I  have  strolled,  at  such  a  time,  as 
far  as  Covent  Garden  Market,  and  stared  at  the  pine-apples.  I  was  fond  of  wandering 
about  the  Adelphi,  because  it  was  a  mysterious  place,  with  those  dark  arches.  I  see 
myself  emerging  one  evening  from  some  of  these  arches,  on  a  little  public-house  close 
to  the  river,  with  an  open  space  before  it,  where  some  coal-heavers  were  dancing  ;  to 
look  at  whom  I  sat  down  upon  a  bench.     I  wonder  what  they  thought  of  me  ! 

I  was  such  a  child,  and  so  little,  that  frequently  when  I  went  into  the  bar  of  a 
strange  public-house  for  a  glass  of  ale  or  porter,  to  moisten  what  I  had  had  for  dinner 


I  BEGIN  LIFE  ON  MY  OWN  ACCOUNT  105 

they  were  afraid  to  give  it  me.     I  remember  one  hot  evening  I  went  into  the  bar  of  a 
pubUc-house,  and  said  to  the  landlord — 

'  What  is  your  best — your  very  best — ale  a  glass  V  '  For  it  was  a  special  occasion. 
I  don't  know  what.     It  may  have  been  my  birthday. 

'  Twopence-halfpenny,'  says  the  landlord,  '  is  the  price  of  the  Genuine  Stunning 
ale.' 

'  Then,'  says  I,  producing  the  money,  '  just  draw  me  a  glass  of  the  Genuine 
Stunning,  if  you  please,  with  a  good  head  to  it.' 

The  landlord  looked  at  me  in  return  over  the  bar,  from  head  to  foot,  with  a  strange 
smile  on  his  face  ;  and  instead  of  drawing  the  beer,  looked  round  the  screen  and  said 
something  to  his  wife.  She  came  out  from  behind  it,  with  her  work  in  her  hand,  and 
joined  him  in  surveying  me.  Here  we  stand,  all  three,  before  me  now.  The  landlord 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  leaning  against  the  bar  window-frame  ;  his  wife  looking  over  the 
little  half-door  ;  and  I,  in  some  confusion,  looking  up  at  them  from  outside  the  parti- 
tion. They  asked  me  a  good  many  questions  ;  as,  what  my  name  was,  how  old  I  was, 
where  I  lived,  how  I  was  employed,  and  how  I  came  there.  To  all  of  which,  that  I 
might  commit  nobody,  I  invented,  I  am  afraid,  appropriate  answers.  They  served 
me  with  the  ale,  though  I  suspect  it  was  not  the  Genuine  Stunning  :  and  the  landlord's 
wife,  opening  the  little  half-door  of  the  bar,  and  bending  down,  gave  me  my  money 
back,  and  gave  me  a  kiss  that  was  half  admiring,  and  half  compassionate,  but  all 
womanly  and  good,  I  am  sure. 

I  know  I  do  not  exaggerate,  unconsciously  and  unintentionally,  the  scantiness  of 
my  resources  or  the  difficulties  of  my  life.  I  know  that  if  a  shilling  were  given  me  by 
Mr.  Quinion  at  any  time,  I  spent  it  in  a  dinner  or  a  tea.  I  know  that  I  worked  from 
morning  until  night,  with  common  men  and  boys,  a  shabby  child.  I  know  that  I 
lounged  about  the  streets,  insufficiently  and  unsatisfactorily  fed.  I  know  that,  but 
for  the  mercy  of  God,  I  might  easily  have  been,  for  any  care  that  was  taken  of  me,  a 
little  robber  or  a  little  vagabond. 

Yet  I  held  some  station  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's  too.  Besides  that  Mr.  Quinion 
did  what  a  careless  man  so  occupied,  and  dealing  with  a  thing  so  anomalous,  could,  to 
treat  me  as  one  upon  a  different  footing  from  the  rest,  I  never  said,  to  man  or  boy, 
how  it  was  that  I  came  to  be  there,  or  gave  the  least  indication  of  being  sorry  that  I 
was  there.  That  I  suffered  in  secret,  and  that  I  suffered  exquisitely,  no  one  ever 
knew  but  I.  How  much  I  suffered,  it  is,  as  I  have  said  already,  utterly  beyond  my 
power  to  tell.  But  I  kept  my  own  counsel,  and  I  did  my  work.  I  knew  from  the  first, 
that,  if  I  could  not  do  my  work  as  well  as  any  of  the  rest,  I  could  not  hold  myself  above 
slight  and  contempt.  I  soon  became  at  least  as  expeditious  and  as  skilful  as  either 
of  the  other  boys.  Though  perfectly  familiar  with  them,  my  conduct  and  manner  were 
different  enough  from  theirs  to  place  a  space  between  us.  They  and  the  men  generally 
spoke  of  me  as  '  the  little  gent,'  or  '  the  young  Suffolker.'  A  certain  man  named 
Gregory,  who  was  foreman  of  the  packers,  and  another  named  Tipp,  who  was  the 
carman,  and  wore  a  red  jacket,  used  to  address  me  sometimes  as  '  David  '  :  but  I 
think  it  was  mostly  when  we  were  very  confidential,  and  when  I  had  made  some  efforts 
to  entertain  them,  over  our  work,  with  some  results  of  the  old  readings  ;  which  were  fast 
perishing  out  of  my  remembrance.  Mealy  Potatoes  uprose  once,  and  rebelled  against 
my  being  so  distinguished  ;   but  Mick  Walker  settled  him  in  no  time. 

My  rescue  from  this  kind  of  existence  I  considered  quite  hopeless,  and  abandoned, 
as  such,  altogether.     I  am  solemnly  convinced  that  I  never  for  one  hour  was  reconciled 

d2 


106  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

to  it,  or  was  otherwise  than  miserably  unhappy  ;  but  I  bore  it ;  and  even  to  Peggotty, 
partly  for  the  love  of  her  and  partly  for  shame,  never  in  any  letter  (though  many 
passed  between  us)  revealed  the  truth. 

Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  were  an  addition  to  the  distressed  state  of  my  mind. 
In  my  forlorn  state  I  became  quite  attached  to  the  family,  and  used  to  walk  about, 
busy  with  Mrs.  Micawber's  calculations  of  ways  and  means,  and  heavy  with  the  weight 
of  Mr.  Micawber's  debts.  On  a  Saturday  night,  which  was  my  grand  treat, — partly 
because  it  was  a  great  thing  to  walk  home  with  six  or  seven  shillings  in  my  pocket, 
looking  into  the  shops  and  thinking  what  such  a  sum  would  buy,  and  partly  because 
I  went  home  early, — Mrs.  Micawber  would  make  the  most  heartrending  confidences  to 
me  ;  also  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when  I  mixed  the  portion  of  tea  or  coffee  I  had  bought 
overnight,  in  a  little  shaving-pot,  and  sat  late  at  my  breakfast.  It  was  nothing  at 
all  unusual  for  Mr.  Micawber  to  sob  violently  at  the  beginning  of  one  of  these  Saturday 
night  conversations,  and  sing  about  Jack's  delight  being  his  lovely  Nan,  towards  the 
end  of  it.  I  have  known  him  come  home  to  supper  with  a  flood  of  tears,  and  a  declara- 
tion that  nothing  was  now  left  but  a  jail ;  and  go  to  bed  making  a  calculation  of  the 
expense  of  putting  bow- windows  to  the  house,  '  in  case  anything  turned  up,'  which  was 
his  favourite  expression.     And  Mrs.  Micawber  was  just  the  same. 

A  curious  equality  of  friendship,  originating,  I  suppose,  in  our  respective  circum- 
stances, sprung  up  between  me  and  these  people  notwithstanding  the  ludicrous  disparity 
in  our  years.  But  I  never  allowed  myself  to  be  prevailed  upon  to  accept  any  invitation 
to  eat  and  drink  with  them  out  of  their  stock  (knowing  that  they  got  on  badly  with 
the  butcher  and  baker,  and  had  often  not  too  much  for  themselves),  until  Mrs.  Micawber 
took  me  into  her  entire  confidence.     This  she  did  one  evening  as  follows  : — 

'  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  I  make  no  stranger  of  you,  and  there- 
fore do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  are  coming  to  a  crisis.' 

It  made  me  very  miserable  to  hear  it,  and  I  looked  at  Mrs.  Micawber's  red  eyes 
with  the  utmost  sympathy. 

'  With  the  exception  of  the  heel  of  a  Dutch  cheese — which  is  not  adapted  to  the 
wants  of  a  young  family  ' — said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  there  is  really  not  a  scrap  of  anything 
in  the  larder.  I  was  accustomed  to  speak  of  the  larder  when  I  lived  with  papa  and 
mamma,  and  I  use  the  word  almost  unconsciously.  What  I  mean  to  express  is,  that 
there  is  nothing  to  eat  in  the  house.' 

'  Dear  me  !  '  I  said,  in  great  concern. 

I  had  two  or  three  shillings  of  my  week's  money  in  my  pocket — from  which  I 
presume  that  it  must  have  been  on  a  Wednesday  night  when  we  held  this  conversation 
— and  I  hastily  produced  them,  and  with  heartfelt  emotion  begged  Mrs.  Micawber 
to  accept  of  them  as  a  loan.  But  that  lady,  kissing  me,  and  making  me  put  them  back 
in  my  pocket,  replied  that  she  couldn't  think  of  it. 

'  No,  my  dear  Master  Copperfield,'  said  she,  '  far  be  it  from  my  thoughts  !  But 
you  have  a  discretion  beyond  your  years,  and  can  render  me  another  kind  of  service, 
if  you  will ;   and  a  service  I  will  thankfully  accept  of.' 

I  begged  Mrs.  Micawber  to  name  it. 

'  I  have  parted  with  the  plate  myself,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  Six  tea,  two  salt, 
and  a  pair  of  sugars,  I  have  at  different  times  borrowed  money  on,  in  secret,  with  my 
own  hands.  But  the  twins  are  a  great  tie  ;  and  to  me,  with  my  recollections  of  papa 
;md  mamma,  these  transactions  are  very  painful.  There  are  still  a  few  trifles  that  we 
could  part  with.     Mr.  Micawber's  feelings  would  never  allow  him  to  dispose  of  them  ; 


I    BEGIN  LIFE  ON  MY  OWN  ACCOUNT  i(.7 

and  Clickett ' — this  was  the  pirl  from  the  workhouse — '  beinp  of  a  vulgar  mind,  would 
take  painful  liberties  if  so  much  confidence  was  reposed  in  her.  Master  Coppcrficld, 
if  I  might  ask  you  " — 

I  understood  Mrs.  Micawber  now,  and  begged  her  to  make  use  of  me  to  any  extent. 
I  began  to  dispose  of  the  more  portable  articles  of  property  that  very  evening  ;  and 
went  out  on  a  similar  expedition  almost  every  morning,  before  I  went  to  Murdstone 
and  Grinby's. 

Mr.  Micawber  had  a  few  books  on  a  little  chiffonier,  which  he  called  the  library  ; 
and  those  went  first.  I  carried  them,  one  ofter  another,  to  a  bookstall  in  the  City 
Road — one  part  of  which,  near  our  house,  was  almost  all  bookstalls  and  bird-shops 
then — and  sold  them  for  whatever  they  would  bring.  The  keeper  of  this  bookstall, 
who  lived  in  a  little  house  behind  it,  used  to  get  tipsy  every  night,  and  to  be  violently 
scolded  by  his  wife  every  morning.  More  than  once,  when  I  went  there  early,  I  had 
audience  of  him  in  a  turn-up  bedstead,  with  a  cut  in  his  forehead  or  a  black  eye,  bearing 
witness  to  his  excesses  overnight  (I  am  afraid  he  was  quarrelsome  in  his  drink),  and  he 
with  a  shaking  hand,  endeavouring  to  find  the  needful  shillings  in  one  or  other  of  the 
pockets  of  his  clothes,  which  lay  upon  the  floor,  while  his  wife,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms 
and  her  shoes  down  at  heel,  never  left  off  rating  him.  Sometimes  he  had  lost  his 
money,  and  then  he  would  ask  me  to  call  again  ;  but  his  wife  had  always  got  some — 
had  taken  his,  I  dare  say,  while  he  was  drunk — and  secretly  completed  the  bargain  on 
the  stairs,  as  we  went  down  together. 

At  the  pawnbroker's  shop,  too,  I  began  to  be  very  well  known.  The  principal 
gentleman  who  officiated  behind  the  counter,  took  a  good  deal  of  notice  of  me  ;  and 
often  got  me,  I  recollect,  to  decline  a  Latin  noun  or  adjective,  or  to  conjugate  a  Latin 
verb,  in  his  ear,  while  he  transacted  my  business.  After  all  these  occasions  Mrs. 
Micawber  made  a  little  treat,  which  was  generally  a  supper  ;  and  there  was  a  peculiar 
relish  in  these  meals  which  I  well  remember. 

At  last  Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  came  to  a  crisis,  and  he  was  arrested  early  one 
morning,  and  carried  over  to  the  King's  Bench  Prison  in  the  Borough.  He  told  me, 
as  he  went  out  of  the  house,  that  the  God  of  day  had  now  gone  down  upon  him — 
and  I  really  thought  his  heart  was  broken  and  mine  too.  But  I  heard,  afterwards,  that 
he  was  seen  to  play  a  lively  game  at  skittles,  before  noon. 

On  the  first  Sunday  after  he  was  taken  there,  I  was  to  go  and  see  him,  and  have 
dinner  with  him.  I  was  to  ask  my  way  to  such  a  place,  and  just  short  of  that  place 
I  should  see  such  another  place,  and  just  short  of  that  I  should  see  a  yard,  which  I 
was  to  cross,  and  keep  straight  on  until  I  saw  a  turnkey.  All  this  I  did  ;  and  when 
at  last  I  did  see  a  turnkey  (poor  little  fellow  that  I  was  !),  and  thought  how,  when 
Roderick  Random  was  in  a  debtors'  prison,  there  was  a  man  there  \vith  nothing  on  him 
but  an  old  rug,  the  turnkey  swam  before  my  dimmed  eyes  and  my  beating  heart. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  waiting  for  me  within  the  gate,  and  we  went  up  to  his  room 
(top  story  but  one),  and  cried  very  much.  He  solemnly  conjured  me,  I  remember,  to 
taJke  warning  by  his  fate  ;  and  to  observe  that  if  a  man  had  twenty  pounds  a-year  for 
his  income,  and  spent  nineteen  pounds  nineteen  shillings  and  sixpence,  he  would  be 
happy,  but  that  if  he  spent  twenty  pounds  one  he  would  be  miserable.  After  which 
he  borrowed  a  shilling  of  me  for  porter,  gave  me  a  written  order  on  Mrs.  Micawber  for 
the  amovmt,  and  put  away  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  cheered  up. 

We  sat  before  a  little  fire,  with  two  bricks  put  within  the  rusted  grate,  one  on  each 
side,  to  prevent  its  burning  too  many  coals  ;    until  another  debtor,  who  shared  the 


108  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

room  with  Mr.  Micawber,  came  in  from  the  bakehouse  with  the  loin  of  mutton  which 
was  our  joint-stock  repast.  Then  I  was  sent  up  to  '  Captain  Hopkins  '  in  the  room 
overhead,  with  Mr.  Micawber's  compHments,  and  I  was  his  young  friend,  and  would 
Captain  Hopkins  lend  me  a  knife  and  fork. 

Captain  Hopkins  lent  me  the  knife  and  fork,  with  his  compliments  to  Mr.  Micawber. 
There  was  a  very  dirty  lady  in  his  little  room,  and  two  wan  girls,  his  daughters,  with 
shock  heads  of  hair.  I  thought  it  was  better  to  borrow  Captain  Hopkins's  knife  and 
fork,  than  Captain  Hopkins's  comb.  The  captain  himself  was  in  the  last  extremity  of 
shabbiness,  with  large  whiskers,  and  an  old,  old  brown  greatcoat  with  no  other  coat 
below  it.  I  saw  his  bed  rolled  up  in  a  comer  ;  and  what  plates  and  dishes  and  pots  he 
had,  on  a  shelf  ;  and  I  divined  (God  knows  how)  that  though  the  two  girls  with  the 
shock  heads  of  hair  were  Captain  Hopkins's  children,  the  dirty  lady  was  not  married 
to  Captain  Hopkins.  My  timid  station  on  his  threshold  was  not  occupied  more  than 
a  couple  of  minutes  at  most ;  but  I  came  down  again  with  all  this  in  my  knowledge, 
as  surely  as  the  knife  and  fork  were  in  my  hand. 

There  was  something  gipsy-like  and  agreeable  in  the  dinner,  after  all.  I  took  back 
Captain  Hopkins's  knife  and  fork  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  went  home  to  comfort 
Mrs.  Micawber  with  an  account  of  my  visit.  She  fainted  when  she  saw  me  return, 
and  made  a  little  jug  of  egghot  afterwards  to  console  us  while  we  talked  it  over. 

I  don't  know  how  the  household  furniture  came  to  be  sold  for  the  family  benefit, 
or  who  sold  it,  except  that  /  did  not.  Sold  it  was,  however,  and  carried  away  in  a 
van  ;  except  the  bed,  a  few  chairs,  and  the  kitchen-table.  With  these  possessions  we 
encamped,  as  it  were,  in  the  two  parlours  of  the  emptied  house  in  Windsor  Terrace  ; 
Mrs.  Micawber,  the  children,  the  Orfling,  and  myself ;  and  lived  in  those  rooms  night 
and  day.  I  have  no  idea  for  how  long,  though  it  seems  to  me  for  a  long  time.  At  last 
Mrs.  Micawber  resolved  to  move  into  the  prison,  where  Mr.  Micawber  had  now  secured 
a  room  to  himself.  So  I  took  the  key  of  the  house  to  the  landlord,  who  was  very 
glad  to  get  it ;  and  the  beds  were  sent  over  to  the  King's  Bench,  except  mine,  for  which 
a  little  room  was  hired  outside  the  walls  in  the  neighbourhood  of  that  Institution,  very 
much  to  my  satisfaction,  since  the  Micawbers  and  I  had  become  too  used  to  one  another, 
in  our  troubles,  to  part.  The  Orfling  was  likewise  accommodated  with  an  inexpensive 
lodging  in  the  same  neighbourhood.  Mine  was  a  quiet  back-garret  with  a  sloping 
roof,  commanding  a  pleasant  prospect  of  a  timber-yard,  and  when  I  took  possession 
of  it,  with  the  reflection  that  Mr.  Micawber's  troubles  had  come  to  a  crisis  at  last,  I 
thought  it  quite  a  paradise. 

All  this  time  I  was  working  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's  in  the  same  common  way, 
and  with  the  same  common  companions,  and  with  the  same  sense  of  unmerited  degrada- 
tion as  at  first.  But  I  never,  happily  for  me,  no  doubt  made  a  single  acquaintance, 
or  spoke  to  any  of  the  many  boys  whom  I  saw  daily  in  going  to  the  warehouse,  in  coming 
from  it,  and  in  prowling  about  the  streets  at  meal-times.  I  led  the  same  secretly 
unhappy  life  ;  but  I  led  it  in  the  same  lonely,  self-reliant  manner.  The  only  changes  I 
am  conscious  of  are,  firstly,  that  I  had  grown  more  shabby,  and  secondly,  that  I  was  now 
relieved  of  much  of  the  weight  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber's  cares  ;  for  some  relatives  or 
friends  had  engaged  to  help  them  at  their  present  pass,  and  they  lived  more  comfortably 
in  the  prison  than  they  had  lived  for  a  long  while  out  of  it.  I  used  to  breakfast  with 
them  now,  in  virtue  of  some  arrangement,  of  which  I  have  forgotten  the  details.  I 
forget,  too,  at  what  hour  the  gates  were  ojjcned  in  the  morning,  admitting  of  my  going 
in  ;   but  I  know  that  I  was  often  up  at  six  o'clock,  and  that  my  favourite  lounging- 


I   BEGIN   \AVi:  ON  MY  OWN  ACCOUNT  ino 

place  in  the  interval  was  old  L<)ii(lc)n  Bri(lf];e,  where  1  was  wont  to  sit  in  one  oi  the  st<>Me 
recesses,  watchinj;  the  people  fioin<,'  by,  or  to  look  over  the  balustrades  at  the  sun 
shining  in  the  water,  and  lighting  up  the  golden  flame  on  the  top  of  the  Monument. 
The  Orfling  met  me  here  sometimes,  to  be  told  some  astonishing  fictions  respecting  the 
wharves  and  the  Tower  ;  of  which  I  can  say  no  more  than  that  I  hope  I  believed  them 
myself.  In  the  evening  I  used  to  go  back  to  the  prison,  and  walk  up  and  down  the 
parade  with  Mr.  Micawber  ;  or  play  casino  with  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  hear  reminiscences 
of  her  papa  and  mamma.  Whether  Mr.  Murdstone  knew  where  I  was,  I  am  unable 
to  say.     I  never  told  them  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's. 

Mr.  Micawber's  affairs,  although  past  their  crisis,  were  very  much  involved  by 
reason  of  a  certain  '  Deed,'  of  which  I  used  to  hear  a  great  deal,  and  which  I  suppose, 
now,  to  have  been  some  former  composition  with  his  creditors,  though  I  was  so  far  from 
being  clear  about  it  then,  that  I  am  conscious  of  having  confounded  it  with  those 
demoniacal  parchments  which  are  held  to  have,  once  upon  a  time,  obtained  to  a  great 
extent  in  Germany.  At  last  this  document  appeared  to  be  got  out  of  the  way,  some- 
how ;  at  all  events  it  ceased  to  be  the  rock  ahead  it  had  been  ;  and  Mrs.  Micawber 
informed  me  that  '  her  family  '  had  decided  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  apply  for  his 
release  under  the  Insolvent  Debtors'  Act,  which  would  set  him  free,  she  expected,  in 
about  six  weeks. 

'  And  then,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  who  was  present,  '  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall,  please 
Heaven,  begin  to  be  beforehand  with  the  world,  and  to  live  in  a  perfectly  new  manner, 
if — in  short,  if  anything  turns  up.' 

By  way  of  going  in  for  anything  that  might  be  on  the  cards,  I  call  to  mind  that 
Mr.  Micawber,  about  this  time,  composed  a  petition  to  the  House  of  Commons,  praying 
for  an  alteration  in  the  law  of  imprisonment  for  debt.  I  set  down  this  remembrance 
here,  because  it  is  an  instance  to  myself  of  the  manner  in  which  I  fitted  my  old  books 
to  my  altered  life,  and  made  stories  for  myself,  out  of  the  streets,  and  out  of  men  and 
women  ;  and  how  some  main  points  in  the  character  I  shall  unconsciously  develop,  I 
suppose,  in  writing  my  life,  were  gradually  forming  all  this  while. 

There  was  a  club  in  the  prison,  in  which  Mr.  Micawber,  as  a  gentleman,  was  a 
great  authority.  Mr.  Micawber  had  stated  his  idea  of  this  petition  to  the  club,  and  the 
club  had  strongly  approved  of  the  same.  Wherefore  Mr.  Micawber  (who  was  a 
thoroughly  good-natured  man,  and  as  active  a  creature  about  everything  but  his  own 
affairs  as  ever  existed,  and  never  so  happy  as  when  he  was  busy  about  something  that 
could  never  be  of  any  profit  to  him)  set  to  work  at  the  petition,  invented  it,  engrossed 
it  on  an  immense  sheet  of  paper,  spread  it  out  on  a  table,  and  appointed  a  time  for  all 
the  club,  and  all  within  the  walls  if  they  chose,  to  come  up  to  his  room  and  sign  it. 

When  I  heard  of  this  approaching  ceremony,  I  was  so  anxious  to  see  them  all 
come  in,  one  after  another,  though  I  knew  the  greater  part  of  them  already,  and  they 
me,  that  I  got  an  hour's  leave  of  absence  from  Murdstone  and  Grinby's,  and  established 
myself  in  a  comer  for  that  purpose.  As  many  of  the  principal  members  of  the  club 
as  could  be  got  into  the  small  room  without  filling  it,  supported  Mr.  Micawber  in  front 
of  the  petition,  while  my  old  friend  Captain  Hopkins  (who  had  washed  himself,  to  do 
honour  to  so  solemn  an  occasion)  stationed  himself  close  to  it,  to  read  it  to  all  who 
were  unacquainted  with  its  contents.  The  door  was  then  thrown  open,  and  the 
general  population  began  to  come  in,  in  a  long  file  :  several  waiting  outside,  while  one 
entered,  affixed  his  signature,  and  went  out.  To  ever^-body  in  succession,  Captain 
Hopkins  said,  '  Have  you  read  it  ?  ' — '  No." — '  Would  you  like  to  hear  it  read  ?  '     If 


no  DAVID  OOPPERFIELD 

he  weakly  showed  the  least  disposition  to  hear  it,  Captain  Hopkins,  in  a  loud  sonorous 
voice,  gave  hina  every  word  of  it.  The  Captain  would  have  read  it  twenty  thousand 
times,  if  twenty  thousand  people  would  have  heard  him,  one  by  one.  I  remember  a 
certain  luscious  roll  he  gave  to  such  phrases  as  '  The  people's  representatives  in  Parlia- 
ment assembled,'  '  Your  petitioners  therefore  humbly  approach  your  honourable 
house,'  '  His  gracious  Majesty's  unfortunate  subjects,'  as  if  the  words  were  something 
real  in  his  mouth,  and  delicious  to  taste  ;  Mr.  Micawber,  meanwhile,  listening  with  a 
little  of  an  author's  vanity,  and  contemplating  (not  severely)  the  spikes  on  the  opposite ' 
wall. 

As  I  walked  to  and  fro  daily  between  Southwark  and  Blackfriars,  and  lounged 
about  at  meal-times  in  obscure  streets,  the  stones  of  which  may,  for  anything  I  know, 
be  worn  at  this  moment  by  my  childish  feet,  I  wonder  how  many  of  these  people  were 
wanting  in  the  crowd  that  used  to  come  filing  before  me  in  review  again,  to  the  echo 
of  Captain  Hopkins's  voice  !  When  my  thoughts  go  back  now,  to  that  slow  agony  of 
my  youth,  I  wonder  how  much  of  the  histories  I  invented  for  such  people  hangs  like  a 
mist  of  fancy  over  well-remembered  facts  !  When  I  tread  the  old  ground,  I  do  not 
wonder  that  I  seem  to  see  and  pity,  going  on  before  me,  an  innocent  romantic  boy, 
making  his  imaginative  world  out  of  such  strange  experiences  and  sordid  things. 


CHAPTER    XII 

LIKING    LIFE    ON    MY    OWN    ACCOUNT    NO    BETTER,    I    FORM 
A    GREAT    RESOLUTION 

IN  due  time,  Mr.  Micawber's  petition  was  ripe  for  hearing  ;  and  that  gentleman 
was  ordered  to  be  discharged  under  the  act,  to  my  great  joy.  His  creditors 
were  not  implacable  ;  and  Mrs.  Micawber  informed  me  that  even  the  revengeful 
bootmaker  had  declared  in  open  court  that  he  bore  him  no  malice,  but  that 
when  money  was  owing  to  him  he  liked  to  be  paid.  He  said  he  thought  it  was 
human  nature. 

Mr.  Micawber  returned  to  the  King's  Bench  when  his  case  was  over,  as  some  fees 
were  to  be  settled,  and  some  formalities  observed,  before  he  could  be  actually  released. 
The  club  received  him  with  transport,  and  held  an  harmonic  meeting  that  evening 
in  his  honour ;  while  Mrs.  Micawber  and  I  had  a  lamb's  fry  in  private,  surrounded 
by  the  sleeping  family. 

'  On  such  an  occasion  I  will  give  you.  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber, 
'  in  a  little  more  flip,'  for  we  had  been  having  some  already,  '  the  memory  of  my  papa 
and  mamma.' 

'  Are  they  dead,  ma'am  ?  '   I  inquired,  after  drinking  the  toast  in  a  wine-glass. 

'  My  mamma  departed  this  life,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  before  Mr.  Micawber's 
difficulties  commenced,  or  at  least  before  they  became  pressing.  My  papa  lived  to 
bail  Mr.  Micawber  several  times,  and  then  expired,  regretted  by  a  numerous  circle.' 

Mrs.  Micawber  shook  her  head,  and  dropped  a  pious  tear  upon  the  twin  who 
happened  to  be  in  hand. 

As  I  could  hardly  hope  for  a  more  favourable  opportunity  of  putting  a  question 
in  which  I  had  a  near  interest,  I  said  to  Mrs.  Micawber — ■ 


I  FORM  A  GREAT  RESOLUTION  iii 

'  May  I  ask,  ma'am,  what  you  and  Mr.  Micawber  intend  to  do,  now  that  Mr. 
Micawber  is  out  of  his  difficulties,  and  at  liberty  ?     Have  you  settled  yet  ?  ' 

'  My  family,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  always  said  those  two  words  with  an  air, 
though  I  never  could  discover  who  came  under  the  denomination,  '  my  family  arc  of 
opinion  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  quit  London,  and  exert  his  talents  in  the  country. 
Mr.  Micawber  is  a  man  of  great  talent,  Master  Copperfield.' 
I  said  I  was  sure  of  that. 

'  Of  great  talent,'  repeated  Mrs.  Micawber.     '  My  family  are  of  opinion,  that,  with 
a  little  interest,  something  might  be  done  for  a  man  of  his  ability  in  the  Custom  House. 
The  influence  of  mj'  family  being  local,  it  is  their  wish  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  go 
down  to  Plymouth.     They  think  it  indispensable  that  he  should  be  upon  the  spot.' 
'  That  he  may  be  ready  ?  '  I  suggested. 

'  Exactly,'  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  That  he  may  be  ready  in  case  of  anything 
turning  up.' 

'  And  do  you  go  too,  ma'am  ?  ' 

The  events  of  the  day,  in  combination  with  the  twins,  if  not  with  the  flip,  had 
made  Mrs.  Micawber  hysterical,  and  she  shed  tears  as  she  replied — 

'  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.  Mr.  Micawber  may  have  concealed  his  diffi- 
culties from  me  in  the  first  instance,  but  his  sanguine  temper  may  have  led  him  to 
expect  that  he  would  overcome  them.  The  pearl  necklace  and  bracelets  which  I 
inlierited  from  mamma,  have  been  disposed  of  for  less  than  half  their  value  ;  and  the 
set  of  coral,  which  was  the  wedding  gift  of  my  papa,  has  been  actually  thrown  away 
for  nothing.  But  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.  No  !  '  cried  Mrs.  Micawber, 
more  affected  than  before,  '  I  never  will  do  it  !     It 's  of  no  use  asking  me  !  ' 

I  felt  quite  uncomfortable — as  if  Mrs.  Micawber  supposed  I  had  asked  her  to  do 
anything  of  the  sort  ! — -and  sat  looking  at  her  in  alarm. 

'  Mr.  Micawber  has  his  faults.  I  do  not  deny  that  he  is  improvident.  I  do  not 
deny  that  he  has  kept  me  in  the  dark  as  to  his  resources  and  his  liabilities,  both,'  she 
went  on,  looking  at  the  wall ;   '  but  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber  !  ' 

Mrs.  Micawber  having  now  raised  her  voice  into  a  perfect  scream,  I  was  so 
frightened  that  I  ran  off  to  the  club-room,  and  disturbed  Mr.  Micawber  in  the  act  of 
presiding  at  a  long  table,  and  leading  the  chorus  of 

'  Gee  up,  Dobbin, 
Gee  ho,  Dobbin, 
Gee  up,  Dobbin, 
Gee  up,  and  gee  ho — o — o  ! ' 

— with  the  tidings  that  Mrs.  Micawber  ^vas  in  an  alarming  state,  upon  which  he 
immediately  burst  into  tears,  and  came  away  with  me  with  his  waistcoat  full  of  the 
heads  and  tails  of  shrimps,  of  which  he  had  been  partaking. 

'  Emma,  my  angel  !  '  cried  Mr.  Micawber,  running  into  the  room  ;  '  what  is  the 
matter  ?  ' 

'  I  never  will  desert  you,  Micawber  !  '  she  exclaimed. 

'  My  life  !  '  said  Mr.  Micawber,  taking  her  in  his  arms.     '  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  it.' 

'  He  is  the  parent  of  my  children  !  He  is  the  father  of  my  twins  !  He  is  the 
husband  of  my  affections,'  cried  Mrs.  Micawber,  struggling  ;  '  and  I  ne — ver — will- 
desert  Mr.  Micawber  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  was  so  deeply  affected  by  this  proof  of  her  devotion  (as  to  me,  I 


112  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

was  dissolved  in  tears),  that  he  hung  over  her  in  a  passionate  manner,  imploring  her 
to  look  up,  and  to  be  calm.  But  the  more  he  asked  Mrs.  Micawber  to  look  up,  the 
more  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  nothing  ;  and  the  more  he  asked  her  to  compose  herself,  the 
more  she  wouldn't.  Consequently  Mr.  Micawber  was  soon  so  overcome,  that  he 
mingled  his  tears  with  hers  and  mine  ;  until  he  begged  me  to  do  him  the  favour  of 
taking  a  chair  on  the  staircase,  while  he  got  her  into  bed.  I  would  have  taken  my  leave 
for  the  night,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  my  doing  that  until  the  strangers'  bell  should 
ring.  So  I  sat  at  the  staircase  window,  until  he  came  out  with  another  chair  and 
joined  me. 

'  How  is  Mrs.  Micawber  now,  sir  ?  '  I  said. 

'  Very  low,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  shaking  his  head  ;  '  reaction.  Ah,  this  has  been 
a  dreadful  day  !     We  stand  alone  now — everything  is  gone  from  us  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  pressed  my  hand,  and  groaned,  and  afterwards  shed  tears.  I 
was  greatly  touched,  and  disappointed  too,  for  I  had  expected  that  we  should  be  quite 
gay  on  this  happy  and  long-looked-for  occasion.  But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  were  so 
used  to  their  old  difficulties,  I  think,  that  they  felt  quite  shipwrecked  when  they  came 
to  consider  that  they  were  released  from  them.  All  their  elasticity  was  departed,  and 
I  never  saw  them  half  so  wretched  as  on  this  night ;  insomuch  that  when  the  bell 
rang,  and  Mr.  Micawber  walked  with  me  to  the  lodge,  and  parted  from  me  there  with 
a  blessing,  I  felt  quite  afraid  to  leave  him  by  himself,  he  was  so  profoundly  miserable. 

But  through  all  the  confusion  and  lowness  of  spirits  in  which  we  had  been,  so 
unexpectedly  to  me,  involved,  I  plainly  discerned  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  and 
their  family  were  going  away  from  London,  and  that  a  parting  between  us  was  near  at 
hand.  It  was  in  my  walk  home  that  night,  and  in  the  sleepless  hours  which  followed 
when  I  lay  in  bed,  that  the  thought  first  occurred  to  me — though  I  don't  know  how 
it  came  into  my  head — which  afterwards  shaped  itself  into  a  settled  resolution. 

I  had  grown  to  be  so  accustomed  to  the  Micawbers,  and  had  been  so  intimate 
with  them  in  their  distresses,  and  was  so  utterly  friendless  without  them,  that  the 
prospect  of  being  thrown  upon  some  new  shift  for  a  lodging,  and  going  once  more 
among  unknown  people,  was  like  being  that  moment  turned  adrift  into  my  present  life, 
with  such  a  knowledge  of  it  ready  made,  as  experience  had  given  me.  All  the  sensitive 
feelings  it  wounded  so  cruelly,  all  the  shame  and  misery  it  kept  alive  within  my  breast, 
became  more  poignant  as  I  thought  of  this  ;  and  I  determined  that  the  life  was 
unendurable. 

That  there  was  no  hope  of  escape  from  it,  unless  the  escape  was  my  own  act,  I 
knew  quite  well.  I  rarely  heard  from  Miss  Murdstone,  and  never  from  Mr.  Murdstone ; 
but  two  or  three  parcels  of  made  or  mended  clothes  had  come  up  for  me,  consigned  to 
Mr.  Quinion,  and  in  each  there  was  a  scrap  of  paper  to  the  effect  that  J.  M.  trusted 
D.  C.  was  applying  himself  to  business,  and  devoting  himself  wholly  to  his  duties — 
not  the  least  hint  of  my  ever  being  anything  else  than  the  common  drudge  into  which 
I  was  fast  settling  down. 

The  very  next  day  showed  me,  while  my  mind  was  in  the  first  agitation  of  what 
it  had  conceived,  that  Mrs.  Micawber  had  not  spoken  of  their  going  away  without 
warrant.  They  took  a  lodging  in  the  house  where  I  lived,  for  a  week  ;  at  the  expira- 
tion of  which  time  they  were  to  start  for  Plymouth.  Mr.  Micawber  himself  came  down 
to  the  counting-house,  in  the  afternoon,  to  tell  Mr.  Quinion  that  he  must  relinquish 
me  on  the  day  of  his  departure,  and  to  give  me  a  high  character,  which  I  am  sure  I 
deserved.     And  Mr.  Quinion,  calling  in  Tipp  the  carman,  who  was  a  married  man. 


I   FORM  A  (iREAT  RESOLUTION  11.3 

and  had  a  room  to  let,  quartered  me  prospectively  on  him — by  our  mutual  consent, 
as  he  had  every  reason  to  think  ;  for  I  said  nothing,',  thou},'li  my  resolution  was  now 
taken. 

I  passed  my  evenings  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber,  during  the  remaining  term  of 
our  residence  under  the  same  roof ;  and  I  think  we  Vjccame  fonder  of  one  another  as 
the  time  went  on.  On  the  last  Sunday,  they  invited  me  to  dinner  ;  and  we  haul  a 
loin  of  pork  and  apple  sauce,  and  a  pudding.  I  had  bought  a  spotted  wooden  horse 
overnight  as  a  parting  gift  to  little  Wilkins  Micawber — that  was  the  boy — and  a  doll 
for  little  Emma.  I  had  also  bestowed  a  shilling  on  the  Orfling,  who  was  about  to  be 
disbanded. 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  day,  though  we  were  all  in  a  tender  state  about  our 
approaching  separation. 

'  I  shall  never.  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  revert  to  the  period 
when  Mr.  Micawber  was  in  difficulties,  without  thinking  of  you.  Your  conduct  has 
always  been  of  the  most  delicate  and  obliging  description.  You  have  never  been  a 
lodger.     You  have  been  a  friend.' 

'  My  dear,'  said  Mr.  Micawber ;  '  Copperfield,'  for  so  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
call  me  of  late,  '  has  a  heart  to  feel  for  the  distresses  of  his  fellow-creatures  when  they 
are  behind  a  cloud,  and  a  head  to  plan,  and  a  hand  to — in  short,  a  general  ability  to 
dispose  of  such  available  property  as  could  be  made  away  with.' 

I  expressed  my  sense  of  this  commendation,  and  said  I  was  very  sorry  we  were 
going  to  lose  one  another. 

'  My  dear  young  friend,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  I  am  older  than  you  ;  a  man  of  some 
experience  in  life,  and — and  of  some  experience,  in  short,  in  difficulties,  generally 
speaking.  At  present,  and  until  something  turns  up  (which  I  am,  I  may  say,  hourly 
expecting),  I  have  nothing  to  bestow  but  advice.  Still  my  advice  is  so  far  worth  taking 
that- — in  short,  that  I  have  never  taken  it  myself,  and  am  the  ' — here  Mr.  Micawber, 
who  had  been  beaming  and  smiling,  all  over  his  head  and  face,  up  to  the  present 
moment,  checked  himself  and  frowned — '  the  miserable  wretch  you  behold.' 

'  My  dear  Micawber  !  '  urged  his  wife. 

'  I  say,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  quite  forgetting  himself,  and  smiling  again,  '  the 
miserable  wretch  you  behold.  My  advice  is,  never  do  to-morrow  what  you  can  do 
to-day.     Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time.     Collar  him  !  ' 

'  My  poor  papa's  maxim,'  Mrs.  Micawber  observed. 

'  My  dear,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  your  papa  was  very  well  in  his  way,  and  Heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  disparage  him.  Take  him  for  all  in  all,  we  ne'er  shall — in  short, 
make  the  acquaintance,  probably,  of  anybody  else  possessing,  at  his  time  of  life,  the 
same  legs  for  gaiters,  and  able  to  read  the  same  description  of  print,  without  spectacles. 
But  he  applied  that  maxim  to  our  marriage,  my  dear  ;  and  that  was  so  far  prematurely 
entered  into,  in  consequence,  that  I  never  recovered  the  expense.' 

Mr.  Micawber  looked  aside  at  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  added,  '  Not  that  I  am  sorry 
for  it.  Quite  the  contrary,  my  love.'  After  which  he  was  grave  for  a  minute 
or  so. 

'  My  other  piece  of  advice,  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  you  know.  Annual 
income  twenty  pounds,  annual  expenditure  nineteen  nineteen  six,  result  happiness. 
Annual  income  twenty  pounds,  annual  expenditure  twenty  pounds  ought  and  six, 
result  misery.  The  blossom  is  blighted,  the  leaf  is  withered,  the  God  of  day  goes  down 
upon  the  dreary  scene,  and — and  in  short  you  are  for  ever  floored.     As  I  am  ! ' 


114  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

To  make  his  example  the  more  unpressive,  Mr.  Micawber  drank  a  glass  of  punch 
with  an  air  of  great  enjoyment  and  satisfaction,  and  whistled  the  College  Hornpipe. 

I  did  not  fail  to  assure  him  that  I  would  store  these  precepts  in  my  mind,  though 
indeed  I  had  no  need  to  do  so,  for,  at  the  time,  they  affected  me  visibly.  Next  morning 
I  met  the  whole  family  at  the  coach-office,  and  saw  them,  with  a  desolate  heart,  take 
their  places  outside,  at  the  back. 

'  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  God  bless  you  !  I  never  can  forget 
all  that,  you  know,  and  I  never  would  if  I  could.' 

'  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  farewell  !  Every  happiness  and  prosperity  ! 
If,  in  the  progress  of  revolving  years,  I  could  persuade  myself  that  my  blighted  destiny 
had  been  a  warning  to  you,  I  should  feel  that  I  had  not  occupied  another  man's  place 
in  existence  altogether  in  vain.  In  case  of  anything  turning  up  (of  which  I  am  rather 
confident),  I  shall  be  extremely  happy  if  it  should  be  in  my  power  to  improve  your 
prospects.' 

I  think,  as  Mrs.  Micawber  sat  at  the  back  of  the  coach,  with  the  children,  and  I  stood 
in  the  road  looking  wistfully  at  them,  a  mist  cleared  from  her  eyes,  and  she  saw  what  a 
little  creature  I  really  was.  I  think  so,  because  she  beckoned  to  me  to  climb  up,  with 
quite  a  new  and  motherly  expression  in  her  face,  and  put  her  arm  round  my  neck,  and 
gave  me  just  such  a  kiss  as  she  might  have  given  to  her  own  boy.  I  had  barely  time 
to  get  down  again  before  the  coach  started,  and  I  could  hardly  see  the  family  for  the 
handkerchiefs  they  waved.  It  was  gone  in  a  minute.  The  Orfiing  and  I  stood  looking 
vacantly  at  each  other  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  then  shook  hands  and  said  good- 
bye ;  she  going  back,  I  suppose,  to  St.  Luke's  workhouse,  as  I  went  to  begin  my  dreary 
day  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's. 

But  with  no  intention  of  passing  many  more  weary  days  there.  No.  I  had 
resolved  to  run  away.- — To  go,  by  some  means  or  other,  down  into  the  country,  to  the 
only  relation  I  had  in  the  world,  and  tell  my  story  to  my  aunt.  Miss  Betsey. 

I  have  already  observed  that  I  don't  know  how  this  desperate  idea  came  into  my 
brain.  But,  once  there,  it  remained  there  ;  and  hardened  into  a  purpose  than  which 
I  have  never  entertained  a  more  determined  purpose  in  my  life.  I  am  far  from  sure 
that  I  believed  there  was  anything  hopeful  in  it,  but  my  mind  was  thoroughly  made  up 
that  it  must  be  carried  into  execution. 

Again,  and  again,  and  a  hundred  times  again,  since  the  night  when  the  thought 
had  first  occurred  to  me  and  banished  sleep,  I  had  gone  over  that  old  story  of  my  poor 
mother's  about  my  birth,  which  it  had  been  one  of  my  great  delights  in  the  old  time 
to  hear  her  tell,  and  which  I  knew  by  heart.  My  aunt  walked  into  that  story,  and 
walked  out  of  it,  a  dread  and  awful  personage  ;  but  there  was  one  little  trait  in  her 
behaviour  which  I  liked  to  dwell  on,  and  which  gave  me  some  faint  shadow  of  encourage- 
ment. I  could  not  forget  how  my  mother  had  thought  that  she  felt  her  touch  her 
pretty  hair  with  no  ungentle  hand  ;  and  though  it  might  have  been  altogether  my 
mother's  fancy,  and  might  have  had  no  foundation  whatever  in  fact,  I  made  a  little 
picture,  out  of  it,  of  my  terrible  aunt  relenting  towards  the  girlish  beauty  that  I  recol- 
lected so  well  and  loved  so  much,  which  softened  the  whole  narrative.  It  is  very 
possible  that  it  had  been  in  my  mind  a  long  time,  and  had  gradually  engendered  my 
determination. 

As  I  did  not  even  know  where  Miss  Betsey  lived,  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Peggotty, 
and  asked  her,  incidentally,  if  she  remembered  ;  pretending  that  I  had  heard  of  such 
a  lady  living  at  a  certain  place  I  named  at  random,  and  had  a  curiosity  to  know  if  it 


I  FORM  A  (UlEAT  RESOLUTION  1 1 ", 

were  the  same.  In  the  course  of  that  letter,  I  told  Peggotty  that  I  had  a  particular 
occasion  for  half-a-guinea  ;  and  that  if  she  could  lend  nie  that  sum  until  1  could  repay 
it,  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  her,  and  would  tell  her  afterwards  what  I  had 
wanted  it  for. 

Peggotty's  answer  soon  arrived,  and  was,  as  usual,  full  of  affectionate  devotion. 
She  enclosed  the  half-guinea  (I  was  afraid  she  must  have  had  a  world  of  trouble  to  get 
it  out  of  Mr.  Barkis's  box),  and  told  me  that  Miss  Betsey  lived  near  Dover,  but  whether 
at  Dover  itself,  at  Hythe,  Sandgate,  or  Folkstone,  she  could  not  say.  One  of  our  men, 
however,  informing  me  on  my  asking  him  about  these  places,  that  they  were  all  close 
together,  I  deemed  this  enough  for  my  object,  and  resolved  to  set  out  at  the  end  of 
that  week. 

Being  a  very  honest  little  creature,  and  unwilling  to  disgrace  the  memory  I  was 
going  to  leave  behind  me  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's,  I  considered  myself  bound  to 
remain  until  Saturday  night ;  and,  as  I  had  been  paid  a  week's  wages  in  advance  when 
I  first  came  there,  not  to  present  myself  in  the  counting-house  at  the  usual  hour,  to 
receive  my  stipend.  For  this  express  reason,  I  had  borrowed  the  half-guinea,  that 
I  might  not  be  without  a  fund  for  my  travelling  expenses.  Accordingly,  when  tlie 
Saturday  night  came,  and  we  were  all  waiting  in  the  warehouse  to  be  paid,  and  Ti[)p 
the  carman,  who  always  took  precedence,  went  in  first  to  draw  his  money,  I  shook 
Mick  Walker  by  the  hand  ;  asked  him,  when  it  came  to  his  turn  to  be  paid,  to  say  to 
Mr.  Quinion  that  I  had  gone  to  move  my  box  to  Tipp's  ;  and,  bidding  a  last  good  night 
to  Mealy  Potatoes,  ran  away. 

My  box  was  at  my  old  lodging  over  the  water,  and  I  had  written  a  direction  for 
it  on  the  back  of  one  of  our  address  cards  that  we  nailed  on  the  casks  :  '  Master  David, 
to  be  left  till  called  for,  at  the  Coach  Office,  Dover.'  This  I  had  in  my  pocket  ready  to 
put  on  the  box,  after  I  should  have  got  it  out  of  the  house  ;  and  as  I  went  towards  my 
lodging,  I  looked  about  me  for  some  one  who  would  help  me  to  carry  it  to  the  booking- 
office. 

There  was  a  long-legged  young  man  with  a  very  little  empty  donkey-cart,  standing 
near  the  Obelisk,  in  the  Blackfriars  Road,  whose  eye  I  caught  as  I  was  going  by,  and 
who.  addressing  me  as  '  Sixpenn'orth  of  bad  ha'pence,'  hoped  '  I  should  know  him  agin 
to  swear  to  ' — in  allusion,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  my  staring  at  him.  I  stopped  to  assure 
him  that  I  had  not  done  so  in  bad  manners,  but  uncertain  whether  he  might  or  might 
not  like  a  job. 

'  Wot  job  ?  '  said  the  long-legged  young  man. 

'  To  move  a  box,'  I  answered. 

'  Wot  box  ?  '  said  the  long-legged  young  man. 

I  told  him  mine,  which  was  down  that  street  there,  and  which  I  wanted  him  to 
take  to  the  Dover  coach-office  for  sixpence. 

'  Done  with  you  for  a  tanner  !  '  said  the  long-legged  young  man,  and  directly  got 
upon  his  cart,  which  was  nothing  but  a  large  wooden  tray  on  wheels,  and  rattled  away 
at  such  a  rate,  that  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  keep  pace  with  the  donkey. 

There  was  a  defiant  manner  about  this  young  man,  and  particularly  about  the 
way  in  which  he  chewed  straw  as  he  spoke  to  me,  that  I  did  not  much  like  ;  as  the 
bargain  was  made,  however,  I  took  him  upstairs  to  the  room  I  was  leaving,  and  we 
brought  the  box  down,  and  put  it  on  his  cart.  Now,  I  was  unwilling  to  put  the  direction 
card  on  there,  lest  any  of  my  landlord's  family  should  fathom  what  I  was  doing,  and 
detain  me  ;    so  I  said  to  the  young  man  that  I  would  be  glad  if  he  would  stop  for  a 


116  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

minute,  when  he  came  to  the  dead-wall  of  the  King's  Bench  Prison.  The  words  were 
no  sooner  out  of  my  mouth,  than  he  rattled  away  as  if  he,  my  box,  the  cart,  and  the 
donkey,  were  all  equally  mad  ;  and  I  was  quite  out  of  breath  with  running  and  calling 
after  him,  when  I  caught  him  at  the  place  appointed. 

Being  much  flushed  and  excited,  I  tumbled  my  half-guinea  out  of  my  pocket  in 
pulling  the  card  out.  I  put  it  in  my  mouth  for  safety,  and  though  my  hands  trembled 
a  good  deal,  had  just  tied  the  card  on  very  much  to  my  satisfaction,  when  I  felt  myself 
violently  chucked  under  the  chin  by  the  long-legged  young  man,  and  saw  my  half- 
guinea  fly  out  of  my  mouth  into  his  hand. 

'  Wot  ?  '  said  the  young  man,  seizing  me  by  my  jacket  collar,  with  a  frightful  grin. 
'  This  is  a  poUis  case,  is  it  ?  You  're  a  going  to  bolt,  are  you  ?  Come  to  the  pollis, 
you  young  warmin,  come  to  the  pollis  !  ' 

'  You  give  me  my  money  back,  if  you  please,'  said  I,  very  much  frightened  ;  '  and 
leave  me  alone.' 

'  Come  to  the  pollis  !  '  said  the  young  man.  '  You  shall  prove  it  youm  to  the 
pollis.' 

'  Give  me  my  box  and  money,  will  you  ?  '  I  cried,  bursting  into  tears. 

The  young  man  still  replied  :  '  Come  to  the  pollis  !  '  and  was  dragging  me  against 
the  donkey  in  a  violent  manner,  as  if  there  were  any  affinity  between  that  animal  and 
a  magistrate,  when  he  changed  his  mind,  jumped  into  the  cart,  sat  upon  my  box,  and, 
exclaiming  that  he  would  drive  to  the  pollis  straight,  rattled  away  harder  than  ever. 

I  ran  after  him  as  fast  as  I  could,  but  I  had  no  breath  to  call  out  with,  and  should 
not  have  dared  to  call  out,  now,  if  I  had.  I  narrowly  escaped  being  nm  over,  twenty 
times  at  least  in  half  a  mile.  Now  I  lost  him,  now  I  saw  him,  now  I  lost  him,  now  I 
was  cut  at  with  a  whip,  now  shouted  at,  now  down  in  the  mud,  now  up  again,  now 
running  into  somebody's  arms,  now  running  headlong  at  a  post.  At  length,  confused 
by  fright  and  heat,  and  doubting  whether  half  London  might  not  by  this  time  be  turn- 
ing out  for  my  apprehension,  I  left  the  young  man  to  go  where  he  would  with  my  box 
and  money  ;  and,  panting  and  crying,  but  never  stopping,  faced  about  for  Greenwich, 
which  I  had  understood  was  on  the  Dover  Road  :  taking  very  little  more  out  of  the 
worid,  towards  the  retreat  of  my  aunt,  ISIiss  Betsey,  than  I  had  brought  into  it,  on  the 
night  when  my  arrival  gave  her  so  much  umbrage. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE    SEQUEL    OF    MY    RESOLUTION 

FOR  anything  I  know,  I  may  have  had  some  wild  idea  of  running  all  the  way 
to  Dover,  when  I  gave  up  the  pursuit  of  the  young  man  with  the  donkey- 
cart,  and  started  for  Greenwich.  My  scattered  senses  were  soon  collected 
as  to  that  point,  if  I  had  ;  for  I  came  to  a  stop  in  the  Kent  Road,  at  a 
terrace  with  a  piece  of  water  before  it,  and  a  great  foolish  image  in  the  middle,  blowing 
a  dry  shell.  Here  I  sat  down  on  a  door-step,  quite  spent  and  exhausted  with  the 
efforts  I  had  already  made,  and  with  hardly  breath  enough  to  cry  for  the  loss  of  my 
box  and  half-guinea. 

It  was  by  this  time  dark  ;   I  heard  the  clocks  strike  ten,  as  I  sat  resting.     But  it 


Tllh]  SKQrEL  OF  MY   RESOLUTION  117 

was  a  summer  night,  fortunately,  and  tine  weather.  When  I  had  recovered  my  breath, 
and  had  got  rid  of  a  stifling  sensation  in  my  throat,  I  rose  up  and  went  on.  In  the 
midst  of  my  distress,  I  had  no  notion  of  going  hack.  I  doubt  if  I  should  have  had  any, 
though  there  had  been  a  Swiss  snow-drift  in  the  Kent  Road. 

But  my  standing  possessed  of  only  three-halfpence  in  the  world  (and  I  am  sure  I 
wonder  how  they  came  to  be  left  in  my  pocket  on  a  Saturday  night  !)  troubled  me  none 
the  less  because  I  went  on.  I  began  to  picture  to  myself,  as  a  scrap  of  newspaper 
intelligence,  my  being  found  dead  in  a  day  or  two,  under  some  hedge  ;  and  I  trudged 
on  miserably,  though  as  fast  as  I  could,  until  I  happened  to  pass  a  little  shop,  where 
it  was  written  up  that  ladies'  and  gentlemen's  wardrobes  were  bought,  and  that  the 
best  price  was  given  for  rags,  bones,  and  kitchen-stuff.  The  master  of  this  shop  was 
sitting  at  the  door  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  smoking  ;  and  as  there  were  a  great  many 
coats  and  pairs  of  trousers  dangling  from  the  low  ceiling,  and  only  two  feeble  candles 
burning  inside  to  show  what  they  were,  I  fancied  that  he  looked  like  a  man  of  a 
revengeful  disposition,  who  had  hung  all  his  enemies,  and  was  enjoying  himself. 

My  late  experiences  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  suggested  to  me  that  here  might 
be  a  means  of  keeping  off  the  wolf  for  a  little  while.  I  went  up  the  next  bye-street,  took 
off  my  waistcoat,  rolled  it  neatly  under  my  arm,  and  came  back  to  the  shop-door. 
'  If  you  please,  sir,'  I  said,  '  I  am  to  sell  this  for  a  fair  price.' 

Mr.  Dolloby — Dolloby  was  the  name  over  the  shop-door,  at  least — took  the 
waistcoat,  stood  his  pipe  on  its  head  against  the  door-post,  went  into  the  shop,  followed 
by  me,  snuffed  the  two  candles  with  his  fingers,  spread  the  waistcoat  on  the  counter, 
and  looked  at  it  there,  held  it  up  against  the  light,  and  looked  at  it  there,  and  ultimately 
said — 

'  What  do  you  call  a  price,  now,  for  this  here  little  weskit  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !   you  know  best,  sir,'  I  returned,  modestly. 

'  I  can't  be  buyer  and  seller  too,'  said  Mr.  Dolloby.  '  Put  a  price  on  this  here 
little  weskit.' 

'  Would  eighteenpence  be  ?  ' — I  hinted,  after  some  hesitation. 

Mr.  Dolloby  rolled  it  up  again,  and  gave  it  me  back.  '  I  should  rob  my  family,' 
he  said,  '  if  I  was  to  offer  ninepence  for  it.' 

This  was  a  disagreeable  way  of  putting  the  business  ;  because  it  imposed  upon 
me,  a  perfect  stranger,  the  unpleasantness  of  asking  Mr.  Dolloby  to  rob  his  family  on 
my  account.  My  circumstances  being  so  very  pressing,  however,  I  said  I  would  take 
ninepence  for  it,  if  he  pleased.  Mr.  Dolloby,  not  without  some  grumbling,  gave  nine- 
pence.  I  wished  him  good  night,  and  walked  out  of  the  shop,  the  richer  by  that  sum, 
and  the  poorer  by  a  waistcoat.     But  when  I  buttoned  my  jacket,  that  was  not  much. 

Indeed,  I  foresaw  pretty  clearly  that  my  jacket  would  go  next,  and  that  I  should 
have  to  make  the  best  of  my  way  to  Dover  in  a  shirt  and  a  pair  of  trousers,  and  might 
deem  myself  lucky  if  I  got  there  even  in  that  trim.  But  my  mind  did  not  run  so  mucli 
on  this  as  might  be  supposed.  Beyond  a  general  impression  of  the  distance  before  me, 
and  of  the  young  man  with  the  donkey-cart  having  used  me  cruelly,  I  think  I  had  no 
very  urgent  sense  of  my  difficulties  when  I  once  again  set  off  with  my  ninepence  in  my 
pocket. 

A  plan  had  occurred  to  me  for  passing  the  night,  which  I  was  going  to  carry  into 
execution.  This  was,  to  lie  behind  the  wall  at  the  back  of  my  old  school,  in  a  comer 
where  there  used  to  be  a  haystack.  I  imagined  it  would  be  a  kind  of  company  to  have 
the  boys,  and  the  bedroom  where  I  used  to  tell  the  stories,  so  near  me  :   although  the 


118  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

boys  would  know  nothing  of  my  being  there,  and  the  bedroom  would  yield  me  no 
shelter. 

I  had  had  a  hard  day's  work,  and  was  pretty  well  jaded  when  I  came  climbing 
out,  at  last,  upon  the  level  of  Blackheath.  It  cost  me  some  trouble  to  find  out  Salem 
House  ;  but  I  found  it,  and  I  found  a  haystack  in  the  comer,  and  I  lay  down  by  it  ; 
having  first  walked  round  the  wall,  and  looked  up  at  the  windows,  and  seen  that  all 
was  dark  and  silent  within.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  lonely  sensation  of  first  lying 
down,  without  a  roof  above  my  head  ! 

Sleep  came  upon  me  as  it  came  upon  many  other  outcasts,  against  whom  house - 
doors  were  locked,  and  house-dogs  barked,  that  night — and  I  dreamed  of  lying  on  my 
old  schoolbed,  talking  to  the  boys  in  my  room  ;  and  found  myself  sitting  upright, 
with  Steerforth's  name  upon  my  lips,  looking  wildly  at  the  stars  that  were  glistening 
and  glimmering  above  me.  When  I  remembered  where  I  was  at  that  untimely  hour,  a 
feeling  stole  upon  me  that  made  me  get  up,  afraid  of  I  don't  know  what,  and  walk  about. 
But  the  fainter  glimmering  of  the  stars,  and  the  pale  light  in  the  sky  where  the  day  was 
coming,  reassured  me  :  and  my  eyes  being  very  heavy,  I  lay  down  again,  and  slept — 
though  with  a  knowledge  in  my  sleep  that  it  was  cold — until  the  warm  beams  of  the 
sun,  and  the  ringing  of  the  getting-up  bell  at  Salem  House,  awoke  me.  If  I  could 
have  hoped  that  Steerforth  was  there,  I  would  have  lurked  about  until  he  came  out 
alone  ;  but  I  knew  he  must  have  left  long  since.  Traddles  still  remained,  perhaps, 
but  it  was  very  doubtful ;  and  I  had  not  sufficient  confidence  in  his  discretion  or 
good  luck,  however  strong  my  reliance  was  on  his  good-nature,  to  wish  to  trust  him 
with  my  situation.  So  I  crept  away  from  the  wall  as  Mr.  Creakle's  boys  were  getting 
up,  and  struck  into  the  long  dusty  track  which  I  had  first  known  to  be  the  Dover  Road 
when  I  was  one  of  them,  and  when  I  little  expected  that  any  eyes  would  ever  see  me 
the  wayfarer  I  was  now,  upon  it. 

What  a  different  Sunday  morning  from  the  old  Sunday  morning  at  Yarmouth  ! 
In  due  time  I  heard  the  church-bells  ringing,  as  I  plodded  on  ;  and  I  met  people  who 
were  going  to  church  ;  and  I  passed  a  church  or  two  where  the  congregation  were 
inside,  and  the  sound  of  singing  came  out  into  the  sunshine,  while  the  beadle  sat  and 
cooled  himself  in  the  shade  of  the  porch,  or  stood  beneath  the  yew-tree,  with  his  hand 
to  his  forehead,  glowering  at  me  going  by.  But  the  peace  and  rest  of  the  old  Sunday 
morning  were  on  everything  except  me.  That  was  the  difference.  I  felt  quite  wicked 
in  my  dirt  and  dust,  with  my  tangled  hair.  But  for  the  quiet  picture  I  had  conjured 
up,  of  my  mother  in  her  youth  and  beauty,  weeping  by  the  fire,  and  my  aunt  relenting 
to  her,  I  hardly  think  I  should  have  had  courage  to  go  on  until  next  day.  But  it  always 
went  before  me,  and  I  followed. 

I  got,  that  Sunday,  through  three-and-twenty  miles  on  the  straight  road,  though 
not  very  easily,  for  I  was  new  to  that  kind  of  toil.  I  see  myself,  as  evening  closes  in, 
coming  over  the  bridge  at  Rochester,  footsore  and  tired,  and  eating  bread  that  I  had 
bought  for  supper.  One  or  two  little  houses,  with  the  notice,  '  Lodgings  for  Travellers,' 
hanging  out,  had  tempted  me  ;  but  I  was  afraid  of  spending  the  few  pence  I  had,  and 
was  even  more  afraid  of  the  vicious  looks  of  the  trampers  I  had  met  or  overtaken.  I 
sought  no  shelter,  therefore,  but  the  sky  ;  and  toiling  into  Chatham, — which,  in  that 
night's  aspect,  is  a  mere  dream  of  chalk,  and  drawbridges,  and  mastless  ships  in  a 
muddy  river,  roofed  like  Noah's  arks,  crept,  at  last,  upon  a  sort  of  grass-grown  battery 
overhanging  a  lane,  where  a  sentry  was  walking  to  and  fro.  Here  I  lay  down,  near  a 
cannon  ;   and,  happy  in  the  society  of  the  sentry's  footsteps,  though  he  kiiew  no  more 


THIi;  SEQUEL  OF  MY   RESOLl  TJON  119 

of  my  being  above  him  Llian  the  boys  at  Salem  House  had  known  of  my  lying  Vjy  the 
wall,  slept  soundly  until  morning. 

Very  stiff  and  sore  of  foot  I  was  in  the  morning,  and  cjuite  dazed  by  the  beating 
of  drums  and  marching  of  troops,  which  seemed  to  hem  me  in  on  every  side  wlien  I 
went  down  towards  the  long  narrow  street.  Feeling  that  I  could  go  but  a  very  little  way 
that  day,  if  I  were  to  reserve  any  strength  for  getting  to  my  journey's  end,  I  resolved 
to  make  the  sale  of  my  jacket  its  principal  business.  Accordingly,  I  took  the  jacket 
off,  that  I  might  leani  to  do  without  it ;  and  carrying  it  under  my  arm,  began  a  tour 
of  inspection  of  the  various  slop-shops. 

It  was  a  likely  place  to  sell  a  jacket  in  :  for  the  dealers  in  second-hand  clothes 
were  numerous,  and  were,  generally  speaking,  on  the  look-out  for  customers  at  their 
shop-doors.  But,  as  most  of  them  had,  hanging  up  among  their  stock,  an  officer's 
coat  or  two,  epaulettes  and  all,  I  was  rendered  timid  by  the  costly  nature  of  their 
dealings,  and  walked  about  for  a  long  time  without  offering  my  merchandise  to  any  one. 
This  modesty  of  mine  directed  my  attention  to  the  marine-store  shops,  and  such 
shops  as  Mr.  Dolloby's,  in  preference  to  the  regular  dealers.  At  last  I  found  one  that 
I  thought  looked  promising,  at  the  comer  of  a  dirty  lane,  ending  in  an  inclosure  full 
of  stinging-nettles,  against  the  palings  of  which  some  second-hand  sailors'  clothes,  that 
seemed  to  have  overfloAved  the  shop,  were  fluttering  among  some  cots,  and  rusty  guns, 
and  oilskin  hats,  and  certain  trays  full  of  so  many  old  rusty  keys  of  so  many  sizes 
that  they  seemed  various  enough  to  open  all  the  doors  in  the  world. 

Into  this  shop,  which  was  low  and  small,  and  which  was  darkened  rather  than 
lighted  by  a  little  window,  overhung  with  clothes,  and  was  descended  into  by  some 
steps,  I  went  with  a  palpitating  heart ;  which  was  not  relieved  when  an  ugly  old  man, 
with  the  lower  part  of  his  face  all  covered  with  a  stubbly  grey  beard,  rushed  out  of  a 
dirty  den  behind  it,  and  seized  me  by  the  hair  of  my  head.  He  was  a  dreadful  old  man 
to  look  at,  in  a  filthy  flannel  waistcoat,  and  smelling  terribly  of  rum.  His  bedstead, 
covered  with  a  tumbled  and  ragged  piece  of  patchwork,  was  in  the  den  he  had  come 
from,  where  another  little  window  showed  a  prospect  of  more  stinging-nettles,  and  a 
lame  donkey. 

'  Oh,  what  do  you  want  ?  '  grinned  this  old  man,  in  a  fierce,  monotonous  whine. 
'  Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs,  what  do  you  want  ?  Oh,  my  lungs  and  liver,  what  do  you 
want  ?     Oh,  goroo,  goroo  !  ' 

I  was  so  much  dismayed  by  these  words,  and  particularly  by  the  repetition  of  the 
last  unknown  one,  which  was  a  kind  of  rattle  in  his  throat,  that  I  could  make  no  answer  ; 
hereupon  the  old  man,  still  holding  me  by  the  hair,  repeated — 

'  Oh,  what  do  you  want  ?  Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs,  what  do  you  want  ?  Oh,  my 
lungs  and  liver,  what  do  you  want  ?  Oh,  goroo  !  ' — which  he  screwed  out  of  himself, 
with  an  energy  that  made  his  eyes  start  in  his  head. 

'  I  wanted  to  know,'  I  said,  trembling,  '  if  you  would  buy  a  jacket.' 
'  Oh,  let 's  see  the  jacket !  '  cried  the  old  man.     '  Oh,  my  heart  on  fire,  show  the 
jacket  to  us  !     Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs,  bring  the  jacket  out !  ' 

With  that  he  took  his  trembling  hands,  which  were  like  the  claws  of  a  great  bird, 
out  of  my  hair ;  and  put  on  a  pair  of  spectacles,  not  at  all  ornamental  to  his  inflamed 
eyes. 

'  Oh,  how  much  for  the  jacket  ?  '  cried  the  old  man,  after  examining  it.  '  Oh — 
goroo  ! — how  much  for  the  jacket  ?  ' 

'  Half-a-crown,'  I  answered,  recovering  myself. 


120  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Oh,  my  lungs  and  liver,'  cried  the  old  man,  '  no  !  Oh,  my  eyes,  no  !  Oh,  my 
limbs,  no  !     Eighteenpence.     Goroo  !  ' 

Every  time  he  uttered  this  ejaculation,  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  in  danger  of  starting 
out ;  and  every  sentence  he  spoke,  he  delivered  in  a  sort  of  tune,  always  exactly  the 
same,  and  more  like  a  gust  of  wind,  which  begins  low,  mounts  up  high,  and  falls  again, 
than  any  other  comparison  I  can  find  for  it. 

'  Well,'  said  I,  glad  to  have  closed  the  bargain,  '  I  '11  take  eighteenpence.' 

'  Oh,  my  liver  !  '  cried  the  old  man,  throwing  the  jacket  on  a  shelf.  '  Get  out  of 
the  shop  !  Oh,  my  lungs,  get  out  of  the  shop  !  Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs — goroo  ! — 
don't  ask  for  money  ;  make  it  an  exchange.' 

I  never  was  so  frightened  in  my  life,  before  or  since  ;  but  I  told  him  humbly 
that  I  wanted  money,  and  that  nothing  else  was  of  any  use  to  me,  but  that  I  would 
wait  for  it,  as  he  desired,  outside,  and  had  no  wish  to  hurry  him.  So  I  went  outside, 
and  sat  down  in  the  shade  in  a  comer.  And  I  sat  there  so  many  hours,  that  the  shade 
became  sunlight,  and  the  sunlight  became  shade  again,  and  still  I  sat  there  waiting  for 
the  money. 

There  never  was  such  another  drunken  madman  in  that  line  of  business,  I  hope. 
That  he  was  well  known  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  having 
sold  himself  to  the  devil,  I  soon  understood  from  the  visits  he  received  from  the  boys, 
who  continually  came  skirmishing  about  the  shop,  shouting  that  legend,  and  calling 
to  him  to  bring  out  his  gold.  '  You  ain't  poor,  you  know,  Charley,  as  you  pretend. 
Bring  out  your  gold.  Bring  out  some  of  the  gold  you  sold  yourself  to  the  devil  for. 
Come  !  It 's  in  the  lining  of  the  mattress,  Charley.  Rip  it  open  and  let 's  have  some  ! ' 
This,  and  many  offers  to  lend  him  a  knife  for  the  purpose,  exasperated  him  to  such  a 
degree,  that  the  whole  day  was  a  succession  of  rushes  on  his  part,  and  flights  on  the 
part  of  the  boys.  Sometimes  in  his  rage  he  would  take  me  for  one  of  them,  and  come 
at  me,  mouthing  as  if  he  were  going  to  tear  me  in  pieces  ;  then,  remembering  me,  just 
in  time,  would  dive  into  the  shop,  and  lie  upon  his  bed,  as  I  thought  from  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  yelling  in  a  frantic  way,  to  his  own  windy  tune,  the  Death  of  Nelson  ; 
with  an  Oh  !  before  every  line,  and  innumerable  Goroos  interspersed.  As  if  this  were 
not  bad  enough  for  me,  the  boys,  connecting  me  with  the  establishment,  on  account  of 
the  patience  and  perseverance  with  which  I  sat  outside,  half-dressed,  pelted  me,  and 
used  me  very  ill  all  day. 

He  made  many  attempts  to  induce  me  to  consent  to  an  exchange  ;  at  one  time 
coming  out  with  a  fishing-rod,  at  another  with  a  fiddle,  at  another  with  a  cocked 
hat,  at  another  with  a  flute.  But  I  resisted  all  these  overtures,  and  sat  there  in  despera- 
tion ;  each  time  asking  him,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  for  my  money  or  my  jacket.  At 
last  he  began  to  pay  me  in  halfpence  at  a  time  ;  and  was  full  two  hours  getting  by  easy 
stages  to  a  shilling. 

'  Oh,  my  eyes  and  limbs  !  '  he  then  cried,  peeping  hideously  out  of  the  shop,  after 
a  long  pause,  '  will  you  go  for  twopence  more  ?  ' 

'  I  can't,'  I  said  ;    '  I  shall  be  starved.' 

'  Oh,  my  lungs  and  liver,  will  you  go  for  threepence  ?  ' 

'  I  would  go  for  nothing,  if  I  could,'  I  said,  '  but  I  want  the  money  badly.' 

'  Oh,  go — roo  !  '  (it  is  really  impossible  to  express  how  he  twisted  this  ejaculation 
out  of  himself,  as  he  peeped  round  the  door-post  at  me,  showing  nothing  but  his  crafty 
old  head)  '  will  you  go  for  fourpence  ?  ' 

I  was  so  faint  and  weary  that  I  closed  with  this  offer  ;   and  taking  the  money  out 


THE  SEQUEL  OF  MY  RESOLUTION  121 

of  his  claw,  not  without  trembling,  went  awny  more  hunj^ry  and  thirsty  than  I  had 
ever  been,  a  little  before  sunset.  But  at  an  expense  of  threepence  1  soon  refreshed 
myself  completely  ;  and,  being  in  better  spirits  then,  limped  seven  miles  upon  my 
road. 

My  bed  at  night  was  under  another  haystack,  where  I  rested  comfortably,  after 
having  washed  my  blistered  feet  in  a  stream,  and  dressed  them  as  well  as  I  was  able, 
with  some  cool  leaves.  When  I  took  the  road  again  next  morning,  I  found  that  it  lay 
through  a  succession  of  hop-grounds  and  orchards.  It  was  sufficiently  late  in  the  year 
for  the  orchards  to  be  ruddy  with  ripe  apples  ;  and  in  a  few  places  the  hop-pickers 
were  already  at  work.  I  thought  it  all  extremely  beautiful,  and  made  up  my  mind 
to  sleep  among  the  hops  that  night :  imagining  some  cheerful  companionship  in  the 
long  perspectives  of  poles,  with  the  graceful  leaves  twining  round  them. 

The  trampers  were  worse  than  ever  that  day,  and  inspired  me  with  a  dread  that 
is  yet  quite  fresh  in  my  mind.  Some  of  them  were  most  ferocious-looking  ruffians, 
who  stared  at  me  as  I  went  by  ;  and  stopped,  perhaps,  and  called  after  me  to  come  back 
and  speak  to  them,  and  when  I  took  to  my  heels,  stoned  me.  I  recollect  one  yoimg 
fellow — a  tinker,  I  suppose,  from  his  wallet  and  brazier — who  had  a  woman  with  him, 
and  who  faced  about  and  stared  at  me  thus  ;  and  then  roared  to  me  in  such  a 
tremendous  voice  to  come  back,  that  I  halted  and  looked  round. 

'  Come  here,  when  you  're  called,'  said  the  tinker,  '  or  I  '11  rip  your  young  body 
open.' 

I  thought  it  best  to  go  back.  As  I  drew  nearer  to  them,  trying  to  propitiate  the 
tinker  by  my  looks,  I  observed  that  the  woman  had  a  black  eye. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?  '  said  the  tinker,  gripping  the  bosom  of  my  shirt  with  his 
blackened  hand. 

'  I  am  going  to  Dover,'  I  said. 

'  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  '  asked  the  tinker,  giving  his  hand  another  turn  in 
my  shirt,  to  hold  me  more  securely. 

'  I  come  from  London,'  I  said. 

'  What  lay  are  you  upon  ?  '  asked  the  tinker.      '  Are  you  a  prig  ?  ' 

'  N — no,'  I  said. 

'  Ain't  you,  by  G ?     If  you  make  a  brag  of  your  honesty  to  me,'  said  the 

tinker,  '  I  '11  knock  your  brains  out.' 

With  his  disengaged  hand  he  made  a  menace  of  striking  me,  and  then  looked  at 
me  from  head  to  foot. 

'  Have  you  got  the  price  of  a  pint  of  beer  about  you  ?  '  said  the  tinker.  '  If  you 
have,  out  with  it,  afore  I  take  it  away  !  ' 

I  should  certainly  have  produced  it,  but  that  I  met  the  woman's  look,  and  saw 
her  very  slightly  shake  her  head,  and  form  '  No  !  '  with  her  lips. 

'  I  am  very  poor,'  I  said,  attempting  to  smile,  '  and  have  got  no  money.' 

'  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  '  said  the  tinker,  looking  so  sternly  at  me,  that  I 
almost  feared  he  saw  the  money  in  my  pocket. 

'  .Sir  !  '  I  stammered. 

'  What  do  you  mean,'  said  the  tinker,  '  by  wearing  my  brother's  silk  handkercher  ? 
Give  it  over  here  !  '  And  he  had  mine  off  my  neck  in  a  moment,  and  tossed  it  to  the 
woman. 

Tlie  woman  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  as  if  she  thought  this  a  joke,  and  tossed 
it  back  to  me,  nodded  once,  as  slightly  as  before,  and  made  the  word  '  Go  !  '  with  her 


122  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

lips.  Before  I  could  obey,  however,  the  tinker  seized  the  handkerchief  out  of  my  hand 
with  a  roughness  that  threw  me  away  like  a  feather,  and  putting  it  loosely  round  his 
own  neck,  turned  upon  the  woman  with  an  oath,  and  knocked  her  down.  I  never 
shall  forget  seeing  her  fall  backward  on  the  hard  road,  and  lie  there  with  her  bonnet 
tumbled  off,  and  her  hair  all  whitened  in  the  dust ;  nor,  when  I  looked  back  from  a 
distance,  seeing  her  sitting  on  the  pathway,  which  was  a  bank  by  the  roadside,  wiping 
the  blood  from  her  face  with  the  comer  of  her  shawl,  while  he  went  on  ahead. 

This  adventure  frightened  me  so,  that,  afterwards,  when  I  saw  any  of  these  people 
coming,  I  turned  back  until  I  could  find  a  hiding-place,  where  I  remained  until  they 
had  gone  out  of  sight ;  which  happened  so  often,  that  I  was  very  seriously  delayed. 
But  under  this  difficulty,  as  under  all  the  other  difficulties  of  my  journey,  I  seemed  to 
be  sustained  and  led  on  by  my  fanciful  picture  of  my  mother  in  her  youth,  before  I 
came  into  the  world.  It  always  kept  me  company.  It  was  there,  among  the  hops, 
when  I  lay  down  to  sleep  ;  it  was  with  me  on  my  waking  in  the  morning  ;  it  went 
before  me  all  day.  I  have  associated  it,  ever  since,  with  the  sunny  street  of  Canter- 
bury, dozing  as  it  were  in  the  hot  light ;  and  with  the  sight  of  its  old  houses  and  gate- 
ways, and  the  stately,  grey  cathedral,  with  the  rooks  sailing  round  the  towers.  When 
I  came,  at  last,  upon  the  bare,  wide  downs  near  Dover,  it  relieved  the  solitary  aspect 
of  the  scene  with  hope  ;  and  not  until  I  reached  that  first  great  aim  of  my  journey,  and 
actually  set  foot  in  the  town  itself,  on  the  sixth  day  of  my  flight,  did  it  desert  me. 
But  then,  strange  to  say,  when  I  stood  with  my  ragged  shoes,  and  my  dusty,  sunburnt, 
half-clothed  figure,  in  the  place  so  long  desired,  it  seemed  to  vanish  like  a  dream,  and 
to  leave  me  helpless  and  dispirited. 

I  inquired  about  my  aunt  among  the  boatmen  first,  and  received  various  answers. 
One  said  she  lived  in  the  South  Foreland  Light,  and  had  singed  her  whiskers  by  doing 
so  ;  another,  that  she  was  made  fast  to  the  great  buoy  outside  the  harbour,  and  covdd 
only  be  visited  at  half-tide  ;  a  third,  that  she  was  locked  up  in  Maidstone  Jail  for 
child-stealing  ;  a  fourth,  that  she  was  seen  to  mount  a  broom,  in  the  last  high  wind, 
and  make  direct  for  Calais.  The  fly-drivers,  among  whom  I  inquired  next,  were  equally 
jocose  and  equally  disrespectful ;  and  the  shopkeepers,  not  liking  my  appearance, 
generally  replied,  without  hearing  what  I  had  to  say,  that  they  had  got  nothing  for 
me.  I  felt  more  miserable  and  destitute  than  I  had  done  at  any  period  of  my  running 
away.  My  money  was  all  gone,  I  had  nothing  left  to  dispose  of  ;  I  was  hungry, 
thirsty,  and  worn  out ;  and  seemed  as  distant  from  my  end  as  if  I  had  remained  in 
London. 

The  morning  had  worn  away  in  these  inquiries,  and  I  was  sitting  on  the  step  of 
an  empty  shop  at  a  street-comer,  near  the  market-place,  deliberating  upon  wandering 
towards  those  other  places  which  had  been  mentioned,  when  a  fly-driver,  coming  by 
with  his  carriage,  dropped  a  horse-cloth.  Something  good-natured  in  the  man's  face, 
as  I  handed  it  up,  encouraged  me  to  ask  him  if  he  could  tell  me  where  Miss  Trotwood 
lived  ;  though  I  had  asked  the  question  so  often,  that  it  almost  died  upon  my 
lips. 

'  Trotwood,'  said  he.     '  Let  me  see.     I  know  the  name,  too.     Old  lady  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  I  said,  '  rather.' 

'  Pretty  stiff  in  the  back  ?  '  said  he,  making  himself  upright. 

'  Yes,'  I  said.     '  I  should  think  it  very  likely.' 

'  Carries  a  bag  ?  '  said  he  :  '  bag  with  a  good  deal  of  room  in  it :  is  gruffish,  and 
comes  down  upon  you,  sharp  ?  ' 


THE  SEQUEL  OF  MV   RESOLUTION  128 

My  heart  sank  within  nie  as  I  acknowledged  the  undoubted  accuracy  of  this 
description. 

'Why  then,  I  tell  you  what,'  said  he.  '  If  you  go  up  there,'  pointing  with  his 
whip  towards  the  heights,  '  and  keep  right  on  till  you  come  to  some  houses  facing  the 
sea,  I  think  you  '11  hear  of  her.  My  opinion  is,  she  won't  stand  anything,  so  here  's 
a  penny  for  you.' 

I  accepted  the  gift  thankfully,  and  bought  a  loaf  with  it.  Despatching  this 
refreshment  by  the  way,  I  went  in  the  direction  my  friend  had  indicated,  and  walked  on 
a  good  distance  without  coming  to  the  houses  he  had  mentioned.  At  length  I  saw  some 
before  me  ;  and  approaching  them,  went  into  a  little  shop  (it  was  what  we  used  to  call 
a  general  shop,  at  home),  and  inquired  if  they  could  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  where 
Miss  Trotwood  lived.  I  addressed  myself  to  a  man  behind  the  counter,  who  was 
weighing  some  rice  for  a  young  woman  ;  but  the  latter,  taking  the  inquiry  to  herself, 
turned  round  quickly. 

'  My  mistress  ?  '  she  said.     '  What  do  you  want  with  her,  boy  ?  ' 
'  I  want,'  I  replied,  '  to  speak  to  her,  if  you  please.' 
'  To  beg  of  her,  you  mean,'  retorted  the  damsel. 

'  No,'  I  said,  '  indeed.'  But  suddenly  remembering  that  in  truth  I  came  for  no 
other  purpose,  I  held  my  peace  in  confusion,  and  felt  my  face  bum. 

My  aunt's  handmaid,  as  I  supposed  she  was  from  what  she  had  said,  put  her 
rice  in  a  little  basket  and  walked  out  of  the  shop  ;  telling  me  that  I  could  follow  her,  if 
I  wanted  to  know  where  Miss  Trotwood  lived.  I  needed  no  second  permission  ;  though 
I  was  by  this  time  in  such  a  state  of  consternation  and  agitation,  that  my  legs  shook 
under  me.  I  followed  the  young  woman,  and  we  soon  came  to  a  very  neat  little 
cottage  with  cheerful  bow-windows  :  in  front  of  it,  a  small  square  gravelled  court  or 
garden  full  of  flowers,  carefully  tended,  and  smelling  deliciously. 

'  This  is  Miss  Trotwood's,'  said  the  yoimg  woman.  '  Now  you  know  ;  and  that 's 
all  I  have  got  to  say.'  With  which  words  she  hurried  into  the  house,  as  if  to  shake  off 
the  responsibility  of  my  appearance  ;  and  left  me  standing  at  the  garden-gate,  looking 
disconsolately  over  the  top  of  it  towards  the  parlour-window,  where  a  muslin  curtain, 
partly  undrawn  in  the  middle,  a  large  round  green  screen  or  fan  fastened  on  to  the 
window-sill,  a  small  table,  and  a  great  chair,  suggested  to  me  that  my  aunt  might  be 
at  that  moment  seated  in  awful  state. 

My  shoes  were  by  this  time  in  a  woeful  condition.  The  soles  had  shed  themselves 
bit  by  bit,  and  the  upper  leathers  had  broken  and  burst  until  the  very  shape  and 
form  of  shoes  had  departed  from  them.  My  hat  (which  had  served  me  for  a  night-cap, 
too)  was  so  crushed  and  bent,  that  no  old  battered  handleless  saucepan  on  a  dunghill 
need  have  been  ashamed  to  vie  with  it.  My  shirt  and  trousers,  stained  with  heat,  dew, 
grass,  and  the  Kentish  soil  on  which  I  had  slept — and  torn  besides — might  have 
frightened  the  birds  from  my  aunt's  garden,  as  I  stood  at  the  gate.  My  hair  had 
known  no  comb  or  brush  since  I  left  London.  My  face,  neck,  and  hands,  from  un- 
accustomed exposure  to  the  air  and  sun,  were  burnt  to  a  berry-brown.  From  head 
to  foot  I  was  powdered  almost  as  white  with  chalk  and  dust,  as  if  I  had  come  out  of  a 
lime-kiln.  In  this  plight,  and  with  a  strong  consciousness  of  it,  I  waited  to  introduce 
myself  to,  and  make  my  first  impression  on,  my  formidable  aunt. 

The  unbroken  stillness  of  the  parlour-window  leading  me  to  infer,  after  a  while, 
that  she  was  not  there,  I  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  the  window  above  it,  where  I  saw  a  florid, 
pleasant-looking  gentleman,  with  a  grey  head,  who  shut  up  one  eye  in  a  grotesque 


124  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

manner,  nodded  his  head  at  me  several  times,  shook  it  at  me  as  often,  laughed,  and 
went  away. 

I  had  been  discomposed  enough  before  ;  but  I  was  so  much  the  more  discomposed 
by  this  unexpected  behaviour,  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  slinking  off,  to  think  how  I 
had  best  proceed,  when  there  came  out  of  the  house  a  lady  with  a  handkerchief  tied  over 
her  cap,  and  a  pair  of  gardening  gloves  on  her  hands,  wearing  a  gardening-pocket  like 
a  tollman's  apron,  and  carrying  a  great  knife.  I  knew  her  immediately  to  be  Miss 
Betsey,  for  she  came  stalking  out  of  the  house  exactly  as  my  poor  mother  had  so  often 
described  her  stalking  up  our  garden  at  Blunderstone  Rookery. 

'  Go  away  !  '  said  Miss  Betsey,  shaking  her  head,  and  making  a  distant  chop  in  the 
air  with  her  knife.     '  Go  along  !     No  boys  here  !  ' 

I  watched  her,  with  my  heart  at  my  lips,  as  she  marched  to  a  corner  of  her  garden, 
and  stooped  to  dig  up  some  little  root  there.  Then,  without  a  scrap  of  courage,  but 
with  a  great  deal  of  desperation,  I  went  softly  in  and  stood  beside  her,  touching  her 
with  my  finger. 

'  If  you  please,  ma'am,'  I  began. 

She  started  and  looked  up. 

'  If  you  please,  aunt.' 

'  Eh  ?  '  exclaimed  Miss  Betsey,  in  a  tone  of  amazement  I  have  never  heard 
approached. 

'  If  you  please,  aunt,  I  am  your  nephew.' 

'  Oh,  Lord  !  '  said  my  aunt.     And  sat  flat  down  in  the  garden-path. 

'  I  am  David  Copperfield,  of  Blunderstone,  in  Suffolk — where  you  came,  on  the 
night  when  I  was  bom,  and  saw  my  dear  mamma.  I  have  been  very  unhappy  since 
she  died.  I  have  been  slighted,  and  taught  nothing,  and  thrown  upon  myself,  and 
put  to  work  not  fit  for  me.  It  made  me  run  away  to  you.  I  was  robbed  at  first  setting 
out,  and  have  walked  all  the  way,  and  have  never  slept  in  a  bed  since  I  began  the 
journey.'  Here  my  self-support  gave  way  all  at  once  ;  and  with  a  movement  of  my 
hands,  intended  to  show  her  my  ragged  state,  and  call  it  to  witness  that  I  had  suffered 
something,  I  broke  into  a  passion  of  crying,  which  I  suppose  had  been  pent  up  within 
me  all  the  week. 

My  aunt,  with  every  sort  of  expression  but  wonder  discharged  from  her  counten- 
ance, sat  on  the  gravel  staring  at  me,  until  I  began  to  cry  ;  when  she  got  up  in  a  great 
hurry,  collared  me,  and  took  me  into  the  parlour.  Her  first  jiroceeding  there  was  to 
unlock  a  tall  press,  bring  out  several  bottles,  and  pour  some  of  the  contents  of  each  into 
my  mouth.  I  think  they  must  have  been  taken  out  at  random,  for  I  am  sure  I  tasted 
aniseed  water,  anchovy  sauce,  and  salad  dressing.  When  she  had  administered  these 
restoratives,  as  I  was  still  quite  hysterical,  and  unable  to  control  my  sobs,  she  put  me 
on  the  sofa,  with  a  shawl  under  my  head,  and  the  handkerchief  from  her  own  head  under 
my  feet,  lest  I  should  sully  the  cover  ;  and  then,  sitting  herself  down  behind  the  green 
fan  or  screen,  I  have  already  mentioned  so  that  I  could  not  see  her  face,  ejaculated  at 
intervals,  '  Mercy  on  us  !  '  letting  those  exclamations  off  like  minute-guns. 

After  a  time  she  rang  the  bell.  '  Janet,'  said  my  aunt,  when  her  servant  came  in. 
'  Go  upstairs,  give  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Dick,  and  say  I  wish  to  speak  to  him.' 

Janet  looked  a  little  surprised  to  see  me  lying  stiffly  on  the  sofa  (I  was  afraid  to 
move  lest  it  should  be  displeasing  to  my  aunt),  but  went  on  her  errand.  My  aunt, 
with  her  hands  behind  her,  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  until  the  gentleman  who  had 
squinted  at  me  from  the  upper  window  came  in  laughing. 


Tin:  SEQUEL  OF  MY  RESOLUTION  125 

'  Mr.  Dick,'  said  my  aunt,  '  don't  l)c  a  fool,  l)ecause  nobody  can  be  more  discreet 
than  you  can,  when  you  choose.  We  all  know  that.  So  don't  be  a  fool,  whatever  you 
are.' 

The  gentleman  was  serious  immediately,  and  looked  at  me,  I  thought,  as  if  he 
would  entreat  me  to  say  nothing  about  the  window. 

'  Mr.  Dick,'  said  my  aunt,  '  you  have  heard  me  mention  David  Copperfield  ? 
Now  don't  protend  not  to  have  a  memory,  because  you  and  I  know  better.' 

'  David  C'oppcrheld  V  '  said  Mr.  Dick,  who  did  not  appear  to  me  to  remember  much 
about  it.     '  David  Copperfield  ?     Oh  yes,  to  be  sure.     David,  certainly.' 

'  Well,'  said  my  aunt,  '  this  is  his  boy,  his  son.  He  would  be  as  like  his  father  as 
it  's  possible  to  be,  if  he  was  not  so  like  his  mother,  too.' 

'  His  son  ?  '  said  Mr.  Dick.     '  David's  son  ?     Indeed  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  pursued  my  aunt,  '  and  he  has  done  a  pretty  piece  of  business.  He  has  run 
away.  Ah  !  His  sister,  Betsey  Trotwood,  never  would  have  run  away.'  My  aunt 
shook  her  head  firmly,  confident  in  the  character  and  behaviour  of  the  girl  who  never 
was  born. 

'  Oh  !   you  think  she  wouldn't  have  run  away  ?  '  said  Mr.  Dick. 

'  Bless  and  save  the  man,'  exclaimed  my  aunt,  sharply,  '  how  he  talks  !  Don't 
I  know  she  wouldn't  ?  She  would  have  lived  with  her  godmother,  and  we  should 
have  been  devoted  to  one  another.  Where,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  should  his  sister, 
Betsey  Trotwood,  have  run  from,  or  to  ?  ' 

'  Nowhere,'  said  Mr.  Dick. 

'  Well,  then,'  returned  my  aunt,  softened  by  the  reply,  '  how  can  you  pretend  to  be 
wool-gathering,  Dick,  when  you  are  as  sharp  as  a  surgeon's  lancet  ?  Now,  here  you 
see  young  David  Copperfield,  and  the  question  I  put  to  you  is,  what  shall  I  do  with 
him?' 

'  What  shall  you  do  with  him  ?  '  said  Mr.  Dick,  feebly,  scratching  his  head.  '  Oh  ! 
do  with  him  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  my  aunt,  with  a  grave  look,  and  her  forefinger  held  up.  '  Come  !  I 
want  some  very  sound  advice.' 

'  Why,  if  I  was  you,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  considering,  and  looking  vacantly  at  me,  '  I 

should '     The  contemplation  of  me  seemed  to  inspire  him  with  a  sudden  idea,  and 

he  added,  briskly,  '  I  should  wash  him  !  ' 

'  Janet,'  said  my  aunt,  turning  round  with  a  quiet  triumph,  which  I  did  not  then 
understand.     '  Mr.  Dick  sets  us  all  right.     Heat  the  bath.' 

Although  I  was  deeply  interested  in  this  dialogue,  I  could  not  help  observing  my 
aunt,  Mr.  Dick,  and  Janet,  while  it  was  in  progress,  and  completing  a  survey  I  had 
already  been  engaged  in  making  of  the  room. 

My  aunt  was  a  tall,  hard-featured  lady,  but  by  no  means  ill-looking.  There  was 
an  inflexibility  in  her  face,  in  her  voice,  in  her  gait  and  carriage,  amply  sufficient  to 
account  for  the  effect  she  had  made  upon  a  gentle  creature  like  my  mother  ;  but  her 
features  were  rather  handsome  than  otherwise,  though  unbending  and  austere.  I 
particularly  noticed  that  she  had  a  very  quick,  bright  eye.  Her  hair,  which  was  grey, 
was  arranged  in  two  plain  divisions,  under  what  I  believe  would  be  called  a  mob-cap  ; 
I  mean  a  cap,  much  more  common  then  than  now,  with  side-pieces  fastening  under  the 
chin.  Her  dress  was  of  a  lavender  colour,  and  perfectly  neat ;  but  scantily  made,  as 
if  she  desired  to  be  as  little  encumbered  as  possible.  I  remember  that  I  thought  it,  in 
form,  more  like  a  riding-habit  with  the  superfluous  skirt  cut  off,  than  anj'thing  else. 


126  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

She  wore  at  her  side  a  gentleman's  gold  watch,  if  I  might  judge  from  its  size  and  make, 
with  an  appropriate  chain  and  seals  ;  she  had  some  linen  at  her  throat  not  unlike  a 
shirt-collar,  and  things  at  her  wrists  like  little  shirt-wristbands. 

Mr.  Dick,  as  I  have  already  said,  was  grey-headed  and  florid  :  I  should  have  said 
all  about  him,  in  saying  so,  had  not  his  head  been  curiously  bowed — not  by  age  ;  it 
reminded  me  of  one  of  Mr.  Creakle's  boys'  heads  after  a  beating — and  his  grey  eyes 
prominent  and  large,  with  a  strange  kind  of  watery  brightness  in  them  that  made 
me,  in  combination  with  his  vacant  manner,  his  submission  to  my  aunt,  and  his  childish 
delight  when  she  praised  him,  suspect  him  of  being  a  little  mad  ;  though,  if  he  were 
mad,  how  he  came  to  be  there,  puzzled  me  extremely.  He  was  dressed  like  any  other 
ordinary  gentleman,  in  a  loose  grey  morning  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  white  trousers  ; 
and  had  his  watch  in  his  fob,  and  his  money  in  his  pockets  :  which  he  rattled  as  if  he 
were  very  proud  of  it. 

Janet  was  a  pretty,  blooming  girl,  of  about  nineteen  or  twenty,  and  a  perfect 
picture  of  neatness.  Though  I  made  no  further  observation  of  her  at  the  moment, 
I  may  mention  here  what  I  did  not  discover  until  afterwards,  namely,  that  she  was 
one  of  a  series  of  protegees  whom  my  aunt  had  taken  into  her  service  expressly  to 
educate  in  a  renouncement  of  mankind,  and  who  had  generally  completed  their  abjura- 
tion by  marrying  the  baker. 

The  room  was  as  neat  as  Janet  or  my  aunt.  As  I  laid  down  my  pen,  a  moment 
since,  to  think  of  it,  the  air  from  the  sea  came  blowing  in  again,  mixed  with  the  perfvune 
of  the  flowers  ;  and  I  saw  the  old-fashioned  furniture  brightly  rubbed  and  polished, 
my  aunt's  inviolable  chair  and  table  by  the  round  green  fan  in  the  bow-window,  the 
drugget-covered  carpet,  the  cat,  the  kettle-holder,  the  two  canaries,  the  old  china, 
the  punch-bowl  full  of  dried  rose-leaves,  the  tall  press  guarding  all  sorts  of  bottles  and 
pots,  and,  wonderfully  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest,  my  dusty  self  upon  the  sofa,  taking 
note  of  everything. 

Janet  had  gone  away  to  get  the  bath  ready,  when  my  aunt,  to  my  great  alarm, 
became  in  one  moment  rigid  with  indignation,  and  had  hardly  voice  to  cry  out,  '  Janet  ! 
Donkeys  !  ' 

Upon  which,  Janet  came  running  up  the  stairs  as  if  the  house  were  in  flames, 
darted  out  on  a  little  piece  of  green  in  front,  and  warned  off  two  saddle-donkeys,  lady- 
ridden,  that  had  presumed  to  set  hoof  upon  it ;  while  my  aunt,  rushing  out  of  the  house, 
seized  the  bridle  of  a  third  animal  laden  with  a  bestriding  child,  turned  him,  led  him 
forth  from  those  sacred  precincts,  and  boxed  the  ears  of  the  unlucky  urchin  in  attend- 
ance who  had  dared  to  profane  that  hallowed  ground. 

To  this  hour  I  don't  know  whether  my  aunt  had  any  lawful  right  of  way  over  that 
patch  of  green  ;  but  she  had  settled  it  in  her  own  mind  that  she  had,  and  it  was  all 
the  same  to  her.  The  one  great  outrage  of  her  life,  demanding  to  be  constantly  avenged, 
was  the  passage  of  a  donkey  over  that  immaculate  spot.  In  whatever  occupation  she 
was  engaged,  however  interesting  to  her  the  conversation  in  which  she  was  taking 
part,  a  donkey  turned  the  current  of  her  ideas  in  a  moment,  and  she  was  upon  him 
straight.  Jugs  of  water,  and  watering-pots,  were  kept  in  secret  places  ready  to  be 
discharged  on  the  offending  boys  ;  sticks  were  laid  in  ambush  behind  the  door  ;  sallies 
were  made  at  all  hours  ;  and  incessant  war  prevailed.  Perhaps  this  was  an  agreeable 
excitement  to  the  donkey-boys  ;  or  perhaps  the  more  sagacious  of  the  donkeys,  under- 
standing how  the  case  stood,  delighted  with  constitutional  obstinacy  in  coming  that 
way.     I  only  know  that  there  were  three  alarms  before  the  bath  was  ready  ;  and  that 


THE  SEQUEL  OF  MY  RESOLUTION  127 

on  the  occasion  of  the  last  and  most  desperate  of  all,  I  saw  my  aunt  engage,  single- 
handed,  with  a  sandy-headed  lad  of  fifteen,  and  bump  his  sandy  head  against  her  own 
gate,  before  he  seemed  to  comprehend  what  was  the  matter.  These  interruptions 
were  the  more  ridiculous  to  me,  because  she  was  giving  me  broth  out  of  a  table-spoon 
at  the  time  (having  firmly  persuaded  herself  that  I  was  actually  starving,  and  must 
receive  nourishment  at  first  in  very  small  quantities),  and,  while  my  mouth  was 
yet  open  to  receive  the  spoon,  she  would  put  it  back  into  the  basin,  cry  '  Janet  ! 
Donkeys  !  '  and  go  out  to  the  assault. 

The  bath  was  a  great  comfort.  For  I  began  to  be  sensible  of  acute  pains  in  my 
limbs  from  lying  out  in  the  fields,  and  was  now  so  tired  and  low  that  I  could  hardly 
keep  myself  awake  for  five  minutes  together.  When  I  had  bathed,  they  (I  mean  my 
aunt  and  Janet)  enrobed  me  in  a  shirt  and  a  pair  of  trousers  belonging  to  Mr.  Dick, 
and  tied  mc  up  in  two  or  three  great  shawls.  What  sort  of  bundle  I  looked  like,  I 
don't  know,  but  I  felt  a  very  hot  one.  Feeling  also  very  faint  and  drowsy,  I  soon  lay 
down  on  the  sofa  again  and  fell  asleep. 

It  might  have  been  a  dream,  originating  in  the  fancy  which  had  occupied  my  mind 
so  long,  but  I  awoke  with  the  impression  that  my  aunt  had  come  and  bent  over  me, 
and  had  put  my  hair  away  from  my  face,  and  laid  my  head  more  comfortably,  and  had 
then  stood  looking  at  mc.  The  words,  '  Pretty  fellow,'  or  '  Poor  fellow,'  seemed  to  be  in 
my  ears,  too  ;  but  certainly  there  was  nothing  else,  when  I  awoke,  to  lead  me  to 
believe  that  they  had  been  uttered  by  my  aunt,  who  sat  in  the  bow-window  gazing  at 
the  sea  from  behind  the  green  fan,  which  was  mounted  on  a  kind  of  swivel,  and  turned 
any  way. 

We  dined  soon  after  I  awoke,  off  a  roast  fowl  and  a  pudding  ;  I  sitting  at  table, 
not  unlike  a  trussed  bird  myself,  and  moving  my  arms  with  considerable  difficulty. 
But  as  my  aunt  had  swathed  me  up,  I  made  no  complaint  of  being  inconvenienced. 
All  this  time,  I  was  deeply  anxious  to  know  what  she  was  going  to  do  with  me  ;  but 
she  took  her  dinner  in  profound  silence,  except  when  she  occasionally  fixed  her  eyes  on 
me  sitting  opposite,  and  said,  '  Mercy  upon  us  !  '  which  did  not  by  any  means  relieve 
my  anxiety. 

The  cloth  being  drawn,  and  some  sherry  put  upon  the  table  (of  which  I  had 
a  glass),  my  aunt  sent  up  for  Mr.  Dick  again,  who  joined  us,  and  looked  as  wise  as 
he  could  when  she  requested  him  to  attend  to  my  story,  which  she  elicited  from  me, 
gradually,  by  a  course  of  questions.  During  my  recital,  she  kept  her  eyes  on  Mr.  Dick, 
who  I  thought  would  have  gone  to  sleep  but  for  that,  and  who,  whensoever  he  lapsed 
into  a  smile,  was  checked  by  a  frown  from  my  aunt. 

'  Whatever  possessed  that  poor  unfortunate  Baby,  that  she  must  go  and  be 
married  again,'  said  my  aunt,  when  I  had  finished,  '  I  can't  conceive.' 

'  Perhaps  she  fell  in  love  with  her  second  husband,'  Mr.  Dick  suggested. 

'  Fell  in  love  !  '  repeated  my  aunt.  '  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  business  had 
she  to  do  it  ?  ' 

'  Perhaps,'  Mr.  Dick  simpered,  after  thinking  a  little,  '  she  did  it  for 
pleasure.' 

'  Pleasure,  indeed  !  '  replied  my  aunt.  '  A  mighty  pleasure  for  the  poor  Baby  to 
fix  her  simple  faith  upon  any  dog  of  a  fellow,  certain  to  illuse  her  in  some  way  or  other. 
Wliat  did  she  propose  to  herself,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  She  had  had  one  husband. 
She  had  seen  David  Copperfield  out  of  the  world,  who  was  always  running  after  wax 
dolls  from  his  cradle.     She  had  got  a  baby — oh,  there  were  a  pair  of  babies  when  she 


128  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

gave  birth  to  this  child  sitting  here,  that  Friday  night  ! — and  what  more  did  she 
want  ?  ' 

Mr.  Dick  secretly  shook  his  head  at  me,  as  if  he  thought  there  was  no  getting  over 
this. 

'  She  couldn't  even  have  a  baby  like  anybody  else,'  said  my  aunt.  '  Where  was 
this  child's  sister,  Betsey  Trotwood  ?     Not  forthcoming.     Don't  tell  me  ! ' 

Mr.  Dick  seemed  quite  frightened. 

'  That  little  man  of  a  doctor,  with  his  head  on  one  side,'  said  my  aunt,  '  Jellips, 
or  whatever  his  name  was,  what  was  he  about  ?  All  he  could  do  was  to  say  to  me, 
like  a  robin  redbreast — as  he  is — "  It 's  a  boy."  A  boy  !  Yah,  the  imbecility  of  the 
whole  set  of  'em  !  ' 

The  heartiness  of  the  ejaculation  startled  Mr.  Dick  exceedingly  ;  and  me,  too, 
if  I  am  to  tell  the  truth. 

'  And  then,  as  if  this  was  not  enough,  and  she  had  not  stood  sufficiently  in  the 
light  of  this  child's  sister,  Betsey  Trotwood,'  said  my  aunt,  '  she  marries  a  second  time 
— goes  and  marries  a  Murderer — or  a  man  with  a  name  like  it — and  stands  in  this 
child's  light !  And  the  natural  consequence  is,  as  anybody  but  a  baby  might  have 
foreseen,  that  he  prowls  and  wanders.  He  's  as  like  Cain  before  he  was  grown  up,  as 
he  can  be.' 

Mr.  Dick  looked  hard  at  me,  as  if  to  identify  me  in  this  character. 

'  And  then  there  's  that  woman  with  the  Pagan  name,'  said  my  aunt,  '  that 
Peggotty,  she  goes  and  gets  married  next.  Because  she  has  not  seen  enough  of  the  evil 
attending  such  things,  she  goes  and  gets  married  next,  as  the  child  relates.  I  only 
hope,'  said  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head,  '  that  her  husband  is  one  of  those  poker  husbands 
who  abound  in  the  newspapers,  and  will  beat  her  well  with  one.' 

I  could  not  bear  to  hear  my  old  nurse  so  decried,  and  made  the  subject  of  such  a 
wish.  I  told  my  aunt  that  indeed  she  was  mistaken.  That  Peggotty  was  the  best, 
the  truest,  the  most  faithful,  most  devoted,  and  most  self-denying  friend  and  servant 
in  the  world  ;  who  had  ever  loved  me  dearly,  who  had  ever  loved  my  mother  dearly  ; 
who  had  held  my  mother's  dying  head  upon  her  arm,  on  whose  face  my  mother  had 
imprinted  her  last  grateful  kiss.  And  my  remembrance  of  them  both,  choking  me,  I 
broke  down  as  I  was  trying  to  say  that  her  home  was  my  home,  and  that  all  she  had 
was  mine,  and  that  I  would  have  gone  to  her  for  shelter,  but  for  her  humble  station, 
which  made  me  fear  that  I  might  bring  some  trouble  on  her — I  broke  down,  I  say,  as 
I  was  trying  to  say  so,  and  laid  my  face  in  my  hands  upon  the  table. 

'  Well,  well  !  '  said  my  aunt,  '  the  child  is  right  to  stand  by  those  who  have  stood 
by  him. — Janet !     Donkeys  !  ' 

I  thoroughly  believe  that  but  for  those  unfortunate  donkeys,  we  should  have 
come  to  a  good  understanding  ;  for  my  aunt  had  laid  her  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and 
the  impulse  was  upon  me,  thus  emboldened,  to  embrace  her  and  beseech  her  protection. 
But  the  interruption,  and  the  disorder  she  was  thrown  into  by  the  struggle  outside, 
put  an  end  to  all  softer  ideas  for  the  present,  and  kept  my  aunt  indignantly  declaiming 
to  Mr.  Dick  about  her  determination  to  appeal  for  redress  to  the  laws  of  her  country, 
and  to  bring  actions  for  trespass  against  the  whole  donkey  proprietorship  of  Dover, 
until  tea-time. 

After  tea,  we  sat  at  the  window — on  the  look-out,  as  I  imagined,  from  my  aunt's 
sharp  expression  of  face,  for  more  invaders — until  dusk,  when  Janet  set  candles,  and 
a  backgammon  board,  on  the  table,  and  pulled  down  the  blinds. 


MY  AUNT  MAKES  UP  IIEK  MIND  ABOUT  ME     120 

'  Now,  Mr.  Dick,'  said  my  aunt,  with  her  grave  look,  and  her  forefinger  up  as  before, 
'  I  am  going  to  ask  you  another  question.     Look  at  this  child.' 

'  David's  son  ?  '  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an  attentive,  puzzled  face. 

'  Exactly  so,'  returned  my  aunt.     '  What  would  you  do  with  him,  now  ?  ' 

'  Do  with  David's  son  ?  '  said  Mr.  Dick. 

'  Ay,'  replied  my  aunt,  '  with  David's  son.' 

'  Oh  I  '  said  Mr.  Dick.     '  Yes.     Do  with— I  should  put  him  to  bed.' 

'  Janet !  '  cried  my  aunt,  with  the  same  complacent  triumph  that  I  had  remarked 
before.     '  Mr.  Dick  sets  us  all  right.     If  the  bed  is  ready,  we  '11  take  him  up  to  it.' 

Janet  reporting  it  to  be  quite  ready,  I  was  taken  up  to  it ;  kindly,  but  in  some 
sort  like  a  prisoner  ;  my  aunt  going  in  front,  and  Janet  bringing  up  the  rear.  The  only 
circumstance  which  gave  me  any  new  hope,  was  my  aunt's  stopping  on  the  stairs  to 
inquire  about  a  smell  of  fire  that  was  prevalent  there  ;  and  Janet's  replying  that  she 
had  been  making  tinder  down  in  the  kitchen,  of  my  old  shirt.  But  there  were  no  other 
clothes  in  my  room  than  the  odd  heap  of  things  I  wore  ;  and  when  I  was  left  there, 
with  a  little  taper  which  my  aunt  forewarned  me  would  burn  exactly  five  minutes,  I 
heard  them  lock  my  door  on  the  outside.  Turning  these  things  over  in  my  mind,  I 
deemed  it  possible  that  my  aunt,  who  could  know  nothing  of  me,  might  suspect  I  had 
a  habit  of  running  away,  and  took  precautions,  on  that  account,  to  have  me  in  safe 
keeping. 

The  room  was  a  pleasant  one,  at  the  top  of  the  house,  overlooking  the  sea,  on 
which  the  moon  was  shining  brilliantly.  After  I  had  said  my  prayers,  and  the  candle 
had  burnt  out,  I  remember  how  I  still  sat  looking  at  the  moonlight  on  the  water,  as  if 
I  could  hope  to  read  my  fortune  in  it,  as  in  a  bright  book  ;  or  to  see  my  mother  with  her 
child,  coming  from  heaven,  along  that  shining  path,  to  look  upon  me  as  she  had  looked 
when  I  last  saw  her  sweet  face.  I  remember  hoAv  the  solemn  feeling  with  which  at 
length  I  turned  my  eyes  away,  yielded  to  the  sensation  of  gratitude  and  rest  which 
the  sight  of  the  white-curtained  bed — and  how  much  more  the  lying  softly  down  upon 
it,  nestling  in  the  snow-white  sheets  ! — inspired.  I  remember  how  I  thought  of  all  the 
solitary  places  under  the  night  sky  where  I  had  slept,  and  how  I  prayed  that  I  never 
might  be  houseless  any  more,  and  never  might  forget  the  houseless.  I  remember  how 
I  seemed  to  float,  then,  down  the  melancholy  glory  of  that  track  upon  the  sea,  away 
into  the  world  of  dreams. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

MY    AUNT    MAKES    UP    HER    MIND    ABOUT    ME 

ON  going  down  in  the  morning,  I  found  my  aunt  musing  so  profoundly 
over  the  breakfast-table,  with  her  elbow  on  the  tray,  that  the  contents 
of  the  urn  had  overflowed  the  tea-pot  and  were  lajdng  the  whole  table- 
cloth under  water,  when  my  entrance  put  her  meditations  to  flight. 
I  felt  sure  that  I  had  been  the  subject  of  her  reflections,  and  was  more  than  ever  anxious 
to  know  her  intentions  towards  me.  Yet  I  dared  not  express  my  anxiety,  lest  it  should 
give  her  offence. 

My  eyes,  however,  not  being  so  much  under  control  as  my  tongue,  were  attracted 


130  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

towards  my  aunt  very  often  during  breakfast.  I  never  could  look  at  her  for  a  few 
moments  together  but  I  found  her  looking  at  me — in  an  odd  thoughtful  manner,  as 
if  I  were  an  immense  way  off,  instead  of  being  on  the  other  side  of  the  small  round 
table.  When  she  had  finished  her  breakfast,  my  aunt  very  deliberately  leaned  back 
in  her  chair,  knitted  her  brows,  folded  her  arms,  and  contemplated  me  at  her  leisure, 
with  such  a  fixedness  of  attention  that  I  was  quite  overpowered  by  embarrassment. 
Not  having  as  yet  finished  my  own  breakfast,  I  attempted  to  hide  my  confusion  by 
proceeding  with  it ;  but  my  knife  tumbled  over  my  fork,  my  fork  tripped  up  my 
knife,  I  chipped  bits  of  bacon  a  surprising  height  into  the  air  instead  of  cutting  them 
for  my  own  eating,  and  choked  myself  with  my  tea,  which  persisted  in  going  the  wrong 
way  instead  of  the  right  one,  until  I  gave  in  altogether,  and  sat  blushing  under  my 
aunt's  close  scrutiny. 

'  Hallo  !  '  said  my  aunt,  after  a  long  time. 

I  looked  up,  and  met  her  sharp  bright  glance  respectfully. 

'  I  have  written  to  him,'  said  my  aunt. 

'  To ?  ' 

'  To  your  father-in-law,'  said  my  aunt.  '  I  have  sent  him  a  letter  that  I  '11  trouble 
him  to  attend  to,  or  he  and  I  will  fall  out,  I  can  tell  him  !  ' 

'  Does  he  know  where  I  am,  aunt  ?  '  I  inquired,  alarmed. 

'  I  have  told  him,'  said  my  aunt,  with  a  nod. 

'  Shall  I — be — given  up  to  him  ?  '  I  faltered. 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  my  aunt.     '  We  shall  see.' 

'  Oh  !  I  can't  think  what  I  shall  do,'  I  exclaimed,  '  if  I  have  to  go  back  to  Mr. 
Murdstone  !  ' 

'  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,'  said  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head.  '  I  can't  say, 
I  am  sure.     We  shall  see.' 

My  spirits  sank  under  these  words,  and  I  became  very  downcast  and  heavy  of 
heart.  My  aunt,  without  appearing  to  take  much  heed  of  me,  put  on  a  coarse  apron 
with  a  bib,  which  she  took  out  of  the  press  ;  washed  up  the  tea-cups  with  her  own 
hands  ;  and,  when  everything  was  washed  and  set  in  the  tray  again,  and  the  cloth 
folded  and  put  on  the  top  of  the  whole,  rang  for  Janet  to  remove  it.  She  next  swept 
up  the  crumbs  with  a  little  broom  (putting  on  a  pair  of  gloves  first),  until  there  did  not 
appear  to  be  one  microscopic  speck  left  on  the  carpet ;  next  dusted  and  arranged 
the  room,  which  was  dusted  and  arranged  to  a  hair's-breadth  already.  When  all  these 
tasks  were  performed  to  her  satisfaction,  she  took  off  the  gloves  and  apron,  folded 
them  up,  put  them  in  the  particular  comer  of  the  press  from  which  they  had  been 
taken,  brought  out  her  work-box  to  her  own  table  in  the  open  window,  and  sat  down, 
with  the  green  fan  between  her  and  the  light,  to  work. 

'  I  wish  you  'd  go  upstairs,'  said  my  aunt,  as  she  threaded  her  needle,  '  and  give 
my  compliments  to  Mr.  Dick,  and  I  '11  be  glad  to  know  how  he  gets  on  with  his  Memorial.' 

I  rose  with  all  alacrity,  to  acquit  myself  of  this  commission. 

'  I  suppose,'  said  my  aunt,  eyeing  me  as  narrowly  as  she  had  eyed  the  needle  in 
threading  it,  '  you  think  Mr.  Dick  a  short  name,  eh  ?  ' 

'  I  thought  it  was  rather  a  short  name,  yesterday,'  I  confessed. 

'  You  are  not  to  suppose  that  he  hasn't  got  a  longer  name,  if  he  chose  to  use  it,' 
said  my  aunt,  with  a  loftier  air.  '  Babley — Mr.  Richard  Babley — that 's  the  gentle- 
man's true  name.' 

I  was  going  to  suggest,  with  a  modest  sense  of  my  youth  and  the  familiarity  I 


MY  AUNT  MAKES  UP  HER  MTND  ABOUT  ME      I3i 

had  been  already  guilty  of,  that  I  had  better  give  him  the  full  benefit  of  that  name, 
when  my  aunt  went  on  to  say — 

'  But  don't  you  call  him  by  it,  whatever  you  do.  He  can't  bear  his  name.  That 's 
a  peculiarity  of  his.  Though  I  don't  know  that  it 's  much  of  a  peculiarity,  cither  ; 
for  he  has  been  ill-used  enough,  by  some  that  bear  it,  to  have  a  mortal  antipathy  for 
it.  Heaven  knows.  Mr.  Dick  is  liis  name  here,  and  everywhere  else,  now — if  he  ever 
went  anywhere  else,  which  he  don't.  So  take  care,  child,  you  don't  call  him  anything 
but  Mr.  Dick.' 

I  promised  to  obey,  and  went  upstairs  with  my  message  ;  thinking,  as  I  went, 
that  if  Mr.  Dick  had  been  working  at  his  Memorial  long,  at  the  same  rate  as  I  had  seen 
him  working  at  it,  through  the  open  door,  when  I  came  down,  he  was  probably  getting 
on  very  well  indeed.  I  found  him  still  driving  at  it  with  a  long  pen,  and  his  head  almost 
laid  upon  the  paper.  He  was  so  intent  upon  it,  that  I  had  ample  leisure  to  observe 
the  large  paper  kite  in  a  corner,  the  confusion  of  bundles  of  manuscript,  the  number 
of  pens,  and,  above  all,  the  quantity  of  ink  (which  he  seemed  to  have  in,  in  half-gallon 
jars  by  the  dozen),  before  he  observed  my  being  present. 

'  Ha  !  Phoebus  !  '  said  Mr.  Dick,  laying  down  his  pen.  '  How  does  the  world  go  ? 
I  'II  tell  you  what,'  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  '  I  shouldn't  wish  it  to  be  mentioned,  but 
it 's  a — '  here  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  put  his  lips  close  to  my  ear — '  it 's  a  mad  Avorld. 
Mad  as  Bedlam,  boy  !  '  said  Mr.  Dick,  taking  snuff  from  a  round  box  on  the  table, 
and  laughing  heartily. 

Without  presuming  to  give  my  opinion  on  this  question,  I  delivered  my 
message. 

'  Well,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  in  answer,  '  my  compliments  to  her,  and  I— I  believe  I 
have  made  a  start.  I  think  I  have  made  a  start,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  passing  his  hand 
among  his  grey  hair,  and  casting  anything  but  a  confident  look  at  his  manuscript. 
'  You  have  been  to  school  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir,'  I  answered  ;   '  for  a  short  time.' 

'  Do  you  recollect  the  date,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  looking  earnestly  at  me,  and  taking 
up  his  pen  to  note  it  down,  '  when  King  Charles  the  First  had  his  head  cut  off  ?  ' 

I  said  I  believed  it  happened  in  the  year  sixteen  hundred  and  forty-nine. 

'  Well,'  returned  Mr.  Dick,  scratching  his  ear  with  his  pen,  and  looking  dubiously 
at  me.  '  So  the  books  say  ;  but  I  don't  see  how  that  can  be.  Because,  if  it  was  so  long 
ago,  how  could  the  people  about  him  have  made  that  mistake  of  putting  some  of  the 
trouble  out  of  his  head,  after  it  was  taken  off,  into  mine  ?  ' 

I  was  very  much  surprised  by  the  inquiry  ;  but  could  give  no  information  on  this 
point. 

'  It 's  very  strange,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  a  despondent  look  upon  his  papers,  and 
with  his  hand  among  his  hair  again, '  that  I  never  can  get  that  quite  right.  I  never  can 
make  that  perfectly  clear.  But  no  matter,  no  matter  !  '  he  said  cheerfully,  and  rousing 
himself,  '  there  's  time  enough  !  My  compliments  to  Miss  Trotwood,  I  am  getting  on 
very  well  indeed.' 

I  was  going  away,  when  he  directed  my  attention  to  the  kite. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  kite  ?  '  he  said. 

I  answered  that  it  was  a  beautiful  one.  I  should  think  it  must  have  been  as  much 
as  seven  feet  high. 

'  I  made  it.     We  '11  go  and  fly  it,  you  and  I,'  said  Mr.  Dick.     '  Do  you  see  this  ?  ' 

He  showed  me  that  it  was  covered  with  manuscript,  very  closely  and  laboriously 


132  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

written  ;  but  so  plainly,  that  as  I  looked  along  the  lines,  I  thought  I  saw  some  allusion 
to  King  Charles  the  First's  head  again,  in  one  or  two  places. 

'  There  's  plenty  of  string,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  '  and  when  it  flies  high,  it  takes  the  facts 
a  long  way.  That 's  my  manner  of  diffusing  'em.  I  don't  know  where  they  may  come 
down.  It 's  according  to  circumstances,  and  the  wind,  and  so  forth  ;  but  I  take  my 
chance  of  that.' 

His  face  was  so  very  mild  and  pleasant,  and  had  something  so  reverend  in  it, 
though  it  was  hale  and  hearty,  that  I  was  not  sure  but  that  he  was  having  a  good- 
humoured  jest  with  me.  So  I  laughed,  and  he  laughed,  and  we  parted  the  best  friends 
possible. 

'  Well,  child,'  said  my  aunt,  when  I  went  downstairs.  '  And  what  of  Mr.  Dick, 
this  morning  ?  ' 

I  informed  her  that  he  sent  his  compliments,  and  was  getting  on  very  well  indeed. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?  '  said  my  aunt. 

I  had  some  shadowy  idea  of  endeavouring  to  evade  the  question  by  replying  that 
I  thought  him  a  very  nice  gentleman  ;  but  my  aunt  was  not  to  be  so  put  off,  for  she 
laid  her  work  down  in  her  lap,  and  said,  folding  her  hands  upon  it — • 

'  Come  !  Your  sister  Betsey  Trotwood  would  have  told  me  what  she  thought  of 
any  one,  directly.     Be  as  like  your  sister  as  you  can,  and  speak  out !  ' 

'  Is  he — is  Mr.  Dick — I  ask  because  I  don't  know,  aunt — is  he  at  all  out  of  his 
mind,  then  ?  '  I  stammered  ;   for  I  felt  I  was  on  dangerous  ground. 

'  Not  a  morsel,'  said  my  aunt. 

'  Oh,  indeed  !  '  I  observed  faintly. 

'  If  there  is  anything  in  the  world,'  said  my  aunt,  with  great  decision  and  force  of 
manner,  '  that  Mr.  Dick  is  not,  it 's  that.' 

I  had  nothing  better  to  offer  than  another  timid  '  Oh,  indeed  !  ' 

'  He  has  been  called  mad,'  said  my  aunt.  '  I  have  a  selfish  pleasure  in  saying 
he  has  been  called  mad,  or  I  should  not  have  had  the  benefit  of  his  society  and  advice 
for  these  last  ten  years  and  upwards — in  fact,  ever  since  your  sister,  Betsey  Trotwood, 
disappointed  me.' 

'  So  long  as  that  ?  '  I  said. 

'  And  nice  people  they  were,  who  had  the  audacity  to  call  him  mad,'  pursued  my 
aunt.  '  Mr.  Dick  is  a  sort  of  distant  connection  of  mine  ;  it  doesn't  matter  how  ;  I 
needn't  enter  into  that.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  his  own  brother  would  have  shut 
him  up  for  life.     That 's  all.' 

I  am  afraid  it  was  hypocritical  in  me,  but  seeing  that  my  aunt  felt  strongly  on 
the  subject,  I  tried  to  look  as  if  I  felt  strongly  too. 

'  A  proud  fool  !  '  said  my  aunt.  '  Because  his  brother  was  a  little  eccentric — 
though  he  is  not  half  so  eccentric  as  a  good  many  people — he  didn't  Uke  to  have  him 
visible  about  his  house,  and  sent  him  away  to  some  private  asylum-place  :  though  he 
had  been  left  to  his  particular  care  by  their  deceased  father,  who  thought  him  almost 
a  natural.     And  a  wise  man  he  must  have  been  to  think  so  !     Mad  himself,  no  doubt.' 

Again,  as  my  aunt  looked  quite  convinced,  I  endeavoured  to  look  quite  convinced 
also. 

'  So  I  stepped  in,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  made  him  an  offer.  I  said,  "  Your  brother  's 
sane — a  great  deal  more  sane  than  you  are,  or  ever  will  be,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  Let  him 
have  his  little  income,  and  come  and  live  with  me.  /  am  not  afraid  of  him,  /  am  not 
proud,  /  am  ready  to  take  care  of  him,  and  shall  not  ill-treat  him  as  some  people 


MY  AUNT  MAKES  UP  HER  MIND  ABOUT  ME     183 

(besides  the  asyliim-folks)  liavo  <lono."  After  a  fjood  deal  of  s(]iial)hlinp,'  said  my  aunt, 
'  I  got  him  ;  and  lie  has  been  here  ever  since.  He  is  the  most  friendly  and  amenable 
creature  in  existence  ;  and  as  for  advice  !  But  nobody  knows  what  that  man's  mind  is, 
except  myself.' 

My  aunt  smoothed  her  dress  and  shook  her  head,  as  if  she  smoothed  defiance  of 
the  whole  world  out  of  the  one,  and  shook  it  out  of  the  other. 

'  He  had  a  favourite  sister,'  said  my  aunt,  '  a  good  creature,  and  very  kind  to  him. 
But  she  did  what  they  all  do — took  a  husband.  And  he  did  what  they  all  do — made 
her  wretched.  It  had  such  an  effect  upon  the  mind  of  Mr.  Dick  {that  's  not  madness, 
I  hope  1)  that,  combined  with  his  fear  of  his  brother,  and  his  sense  of  his  unkindness, 
it  threw  him  into  a  fever.  That  was  before  he  came  to  me,  but  the  recollection  of  it 
is  oppressive  to  him  even  now.  Did  he  say  anything  to  you  about  King  Charles  the 
First,  child  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  aunt.' 

'  Ah  !  '  said  my  aunt,  rubbing  her  nose  as  if  she  were  a  little  vexed.  '  That 's 
his  allegorical  way  of  expressing  it.  He  connects  his  illness  with  great  disturbance  and 
agitation,  naturally,  and  that 's  the  figure,  or  the  simile,  or  whatever  it 's  called, 
which  he  chooses  to  use.     And  why  shouldn't  he,  if  he  thinks  proper  ?  ' 

I  said,  *  Certainly,  aunt.' 

'  It 's  not  a  business-like  way  of  speaking,'  said  my  aunt,  '  nor  a  worldly  way. 
I  am  aware  of  that ;  and  that 's  the  reason  why  I  insist  upon  it,  that  there  shan't  be 
a  word  about  it  in  his  Memorial.' 

'  Is  it  a  Memorial  about  his  own  history  that  he  is  writing,  aunt  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  child,'  said  my  aunt,  rubbing  her  nose  again.  '  He  is  memorialising  the 
Lord  Chancellor,  or  the  Lord  Somebody  or  other — one  of  those  people,  at  all  events, 
who  are  paid  to  be  memorialised — about  his  affairs.  I  suppose  it  will  go  in,  one  of  these 
days.  He  hasn't  been  able  to  draw  it  up  yet,  without  introducing  that  mode  of  ex- 
pressing himself ;   but  it  don't  signify  ;   it  keeps  him  employed.' 

In  fact,  I  found  out  afterwards  that  Mr.  Dick  had  been  for  upwards  of  ten  years 
endeavouring  to  keep  King  Charles  the  First  out  of  the  Memorial  :  but  he  had  been 
constantly  getting  into  it,  and  was  there  now. 

'  I  say  again,'  said  my  aunt,  '  nobody  knows  what  that  man's  mind  is  except 
myself ;  and  he  's  the  most  amenable  and  friendly  creature  in  existence.  If  he  likes 
to  fly  a  kite  sometimes,  what  of  that !  Franklin  used  to  fly  a  kite.  He  was  a  Quaker, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  And  a  Quaker  flying  a  kite  is  a  much 
more  ridiculous  object  than  anybody  else.' 

If  I  could  have  supposed  that  my  aunt  had  recounted  these  particulars  for  my 
especial  behoof,  and  as  a  piece  of  confidence  in  me,  I  should  have  felt  very  much 
distinguished,  and  should  have  augured  favourably  from  such  a  mark  of  her  good 
opinion.  But  I  could  hardly  help  observing  that  she  had  launched  into  them,  chiefly 
because  the  question  was  raised  in  her  own  mind,  and  with  very  little  reference  to  me, 
though  she  had  addressed  herself  to  me  in  the  absence  of  anj'body  else. 

At  the  same  time,  I  must  say  that  the  generosity  of  her  championship  of  poor 
harmless  Mr.  Dick,  not  only  inspired  my  young  breast  with  some  selfish  hope  for 
myself,  but  warmed  it  unselfishly  towards  her.  I  believe  that  I  began  to  know  that 
there  was  something  about  my  aunt,  notwithstanding  her  many  eccentricities  and  odd 
humours,  to  be  honoured  and  trusted  in.  Tliough  she  was  just  as  sharp  that  day,  as 
on  the  day  before,  and  was  in  and  out  about  the  donkeys  just  as  often,  and  was  thrown 


134  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

into  a  tremendous  state  of  indignation,  when  a  young  man,  going  by,  ogled  Janet  at  a 
window  (which  was  one  of  the  gravest  misdemeanours  that  could  be  committed  against 
my  aunt's  dignity),  she  seemed  to  me  to  command  more  of  my  respect,  if  not  less  of 
my  fear. 

The  anxiety  I  underwent,  in  the  interval  which  necessarily  elapsed  before  a  reply 
could  be  received  to  her  letter  to  Mr.  Murdstone,  was  extreme  ;  but  I  made  an  en- 
deavour to  suppress  it,  and  to  be  as  agreeable  as  I  could  in  a  quiet  way,  both  to  my 
aunt  and  Mr.  Dick.  The  latter  and  I  would  have  gone  out  to  fly  the  great  kite  ;  but 
that  I  had  still  no  other  clothes  than  the  anything  but  ornamental  garments  with  which 
I  had  been  decorated  on  the  first  day,  and  which  confined  me  to  the  house,  except  for 
an  hour  after  dark,  when  my  aunt,  for  my  health's  sake,  paraded  me  up  and  down 
on  the  cliff  outside  before  going  to  bed.  At  length  the  reply  from  Mr.  Murdstone 
came,  and  my  aunt  informed  me,  to  my  infinite  terror,  that  he  was  coming  to  speak 
to  her  himself  on  the  next  day.  On  the  next  day,  still  bundled  up  in  my  curious 
habiliments,  I  sat  counting  the  time,  flushed  and  heated  by  the  conflict  of  sinking  hopes 
and  rising  fears  within  me  ;  and  waiting  to  be  startled  by  the  sight  of  the  gloomy  face, 
whose  non-arrival  startled  me  every  minute. 

My  aunt  was  a  little  more  imperious  and  stern  than  usual,  but  I  observed  no  other 
token  of  her  preparing  herself  to  receive  the  visitor  so  much  dreaded  by  me.  She  sat 
at  work  in  the  window,  and  I  sat  by,  with  my  thoughts  running  astray  on  all  possible 
and  impossible  results  of  Mr.  Murdstone's  visit,  until  pretty  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Our  dinner  had  been  indefinitely  postponed  ;  but  it  was  growing  so  late,  that  my  aunt 
had  ordered  it  to  be  got  ready,  when  she  gave  a  sudden  alarm  of  donkeys,  and  to  my 
consternation  and  amazement,  I  beheld  Miss  Murdstone,  on  a  side-saddle,  ride  deliber- 
ately over  the  sacred  piece  of  green,  and  stop  in  front  of  the  house,  looking  about  her. 

'  Go  along  with  you  !  '  cried  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head  and  her  fist  at  the  window. 
'  You  have  no  business  there.  How  dare  you  trespass  ?  Go  along  !  Oh  !  you  bold- 
faced thing  !  ' 

My  aunt  was  so  exasperated  by  the  coolness  with  which  Miss  Murdstone  looked 
about  her,  that  I  really  believe  she  was  motionless,  and  unable  for  the  moment  to  dart 
out  according  to  custom.  I  seized  the  opportunity  to  inform  her  who  it  was  ;  and 
that  the  gentleman  now  coming  near  the  offender  (for  the  way  up  was  very  steep, 
and  he  had  dropped  behind),  was  Mr.  Murdstone  himself. 

'  I  don't  care  who  it  is  !  '  cried  my  aunt,  still  shaking  her  head,  and  gesticulating 
anything  but  welcome  from  the  bow-window.  '  I  won't  be  trespassed  upon.  I  won't 
allow  it.  Go  away  !  Janet,  tuni  him  round.  Lead  him  off  !  '  and  I  saw,  from  behind 
my  aunt,  a  sort  of  hurried  battle-piece,  in  which  the  donkey  stood  resisting  everybody, 
with  all  his  four  legs  planted  different  ways,  while  Janet  tried  to  pull  him  round  by 
the  bridle,  Mr.  Murdstone  tried  to  lead  him  on.  Miss  Murdstone  struck  at  Janet  with 
a  parasol,  and  several  boys,  who  had  come  to  see  the  engagement,  shouted  vigorously. 
But  my  aunt,  suddenly  descrying  among  them  the  young  malefactor  who  was  the 
donkey's  guardian,  and  who  was  one  of  the  most  inveterate  offenders  against  her, 
though  hardly  in  his  teens,  rushed  out  to  the  scene  of  action,  pounced  upon  him, 
captured  him,  dragged  him,  with  his  jacket  over  his  head  and  his  heels  grinding  the 
ground,  into  the  garden,  and,  calling  upon  Janet  to  fetch  the  constables  and  Justices, 
that  he  might  be  taken,  tried,  and  executed  on  the  spot,  held  him  at  bay  there.  This 
part  of  the  business,  however,  did  not  last  long  ;  for  the  young  rascal,  being  expert 
at  a  variety  of  feints  and  dodges,  of  which  my  aunt  had  no  conception,  soon  went 


MY  AUNT  MAKES  UP  llVAi  MJM>  AliOUT  ME     185 

whooping  away,  leavin^j  some  deej)  impressions  of  his  nailed  boots  in  the  flower-beds, 
and  talcing  his  donkey  in  triumph  with  him. 

Miss  Murdstone,  during  the  latter  portion  of  the  contest,  had  dismounted,  and 
was  now  waiting  with  her  brother  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  until  my  aunt  should  be 
at  leisure  to  receive  them.  My  aunt,  a  little  ruffled  by  the  combat,  marched  past 
them  into  the  house,  with  great  dignity,  and  took  no  notice  of  their  presence,  until 
they  were  announced  by  Janet. 

'  Shall  I  go  away,  aunt  ?  '  I  asked,  trembling. 

'  No,  sir,'  said  my  aunt.  '  Certainly  not  !  '  With  which  she  pushed  me  into  a 
corner  near  her,  and  fenced  me  in  with  a  chair,  as  if  it  were  a  prison  or  a  bar  of  justice. 
This  position  I  continued  to  occupy  during  the  whole  interview,  and  from  it  I  now  saw 
Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  enter  the  room. 

'  Oh  !  '  said  my  aunt,  '  I  was  not  aware  at  first  to  whom  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
objecting.  But  I  don't  allow  anybody  to  ride  over  that  turf.  I  make  no  exceptions. 
I  don't  allow  anybody  to  do  it.' 

'  Your  regulation  is  rather  awkward  to  strangers,'  said  Miss  Murdstone. 

'  Is  it  ?  '  said  my  aunt. 

Mr.  Murdstone  seemed  afraid  of  a  renewal  of  hostilities,  and  interposing  began — 

'  Miss  Trotwood  !  ' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,'  observed  my  aunt  with  a  keen  look.  '  You  are  the  Mr. 
Murdstone  who  married  the  widow  of  my  late  nephew,  David  Copperfield,  of  Blunder- 
stone  Rookery  ?     Though  why  Rookery,  /  don't  know  !  ' 

'  I  am,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone. 

'  You  '11  excuse  my  saying,  sir,'  returned  my  aunt,  '  that  I  think  it  would  have 
been  a  much  better  and  happier  thing  if  you  had  left  that  poor  child  alone.' 

'  I  so  far  agree  with  what  Miss  Trotwood  has  remarked,'  observed  Miss  Murdstone, 
bridling,  '  that  I  consider  our  lamented  Clara  to  have  been,  in  all  essential  respects,  a 
mere  child.' 

'  It  is  a  comfort  to  you  and  me,  ma'am,'  said  my  aunt,  '  who  are  getting  on  in  life, 
and  are  not  likely  to  be  made  unhappy  by  our  personal  attractions,  that  nobody  can 
say  the  same  of  us.' 

'  No  doubt !  '  returned  Miss  Murdstone,  though,  I  thought,  not  with  a  very  ready 
or  gracious  assent.  '  And  it  certainly  might  have  been,  as  you  say,  a  better  and  happier 
thing  for  my  brother  if  he  had  never  entered  into  such  a  marriage.  I  have  always 
been  of  that  opinion.' 

'  I  have  no  doubt  you  have,'  said  my  aunt.  '  Janet,'  ringing  the  bell,  '  my  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  Dick,  and  beg  him  to  come  down.' 

Until  he  came,  my  aunt  sat  perfectly  upright  and  stiff,  frowning  at  the  wall. 
When  he  came,  my  aunt  performed  the  ceremony  of  introduction. 

'  Mr.  Dick.  An  old  and  intimate  friend.  On  whose  judgment,'  said  my  aunt, 
with  emphasis,  as  an  admonition  to  Mr.  Dick,  who  was  biting  his  forefinger  and  looking 
rather  foolish,  '  I  rely.' 

Mr.  Dick  took  his  finger  out  of  his  mouth,  on  this  hint,  and  stood  among  the  group, 
with  a  grave  and  attentive  expression  of  face.  My  aunt  inclined  her  head  to  Mr. 
Murdstone,  who  went  on — 

'  Miss  Trotwood.  On  the  receipt  of  your  letter,  I  considered  it  an  act  of  greater 
justice  to  myself,  and  perhaps  of  more  respect  to  you ' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  my  aunt,  still  eyeing  him  keenly.     '  You  needn't  mind  me.' 


136  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  To  answer  it  in  person,  however  inconvenient  the  journey,'  pursued  Mr.  Murd- 
stone,  '  rather  than  by  letter.  This  unhappy  boy  who  has  run  away  from  his  friends 
and  his  occupation ' 

'  And  whose  appearance,'  inteqjosed  his  sister,  directing  general  attention  to  me 
in  my  indefinable  costume,  '  is  perfectly  scandalous  and  disgraceful.' 

'  Jane  Murdstone,'  said  her  brother,  '  have  the  goodness  not  to  interrupt  me. 
This  unhappy  boy.  Miss  Trotwood,  has  been  the  occasion  of  much  domestic  trouble 
and  uneasiness  ;  both  during  the  lifetime  of  my  late  dear  wife,  and  since.  He  has  a 
sullen,  rebellious  spirit ;  a  violent  temper  ;  and  an  untoward,  intractable  disposition. 
Both  my  sister  and  myself  have  endeavoured  to  correct  his  vices,  but  ineffectually. 
And  I  have  felt — we  both  have  felt,  I  may  say  ;  my  sister  being  fully  in  my  confidence — 
that  it  is  right  you  should  receive  this  grave  and  dispassionate  assurance  from 
our  lips.' 

'  It  can  hardly  be  necessary  for  me  to  confirm  anji^hing  stated  by  my  brother,' 
said  Miss  Murdstone  ;  '  but  I  beg  to  observe,  that,  of  all  the  boys  in  the  world,  I  believe 
this  is  the  worst  boy.' 

'  Strong  !  '  said  my  aunt,  shortly. 

'  But  not  at  all  too  strong  for  the  facts,'  returned  Miss  Murdstone. 

'  Ha  !  '  said  my  aunt.     '  Well,  sir  ?  ' 

'  I  have  my  own  opinions,'  resumed  Mr.  Murdstone,  whose  face  darkened  more 
and  more,  the  more  he  and  my  aunt  observed  each  other,  which  they  did  very  narrowly, 
'  as  to  the  best  mode  of  bringing  him  up  ;  they  are  founded,  in  part,  on  my  knowledge 
of  him,  and  in  part  on  my  knowledge  of  my  own  means  and  resources.  I  am  responsible 
for  them  to  myself,  I  act  upon  them,  and  I  say  no  more  about  them.  It  is  enough 
that  I  place  this  boy  under  the  eye  of  a  friend  of  my  own,  in  a  respectable  business  ; 
that  it  does  not  please  him  ;  that  he  runs  away  from  it ;  makes  himself  a  common 
vagabond  about  the  country  ;  and  comes  here,  in  rags,  to  appeal  to  you.  Miss  Trot- 
wood. I  wish  to  set  before  you,  honourably,  the  exact  consequences — so  far  as  they 
are  within  my  knowledge — of  your  abetting  him  in  this  appeal.' 

'  But  about  the  respectable  business  first,'  said  my  aunt.  '  If  he  had  been  your 
own  boy,  you  would  have  put  him  to  it,  just  the  same,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  If  he  had  been  my  brother's  own  boy,'  returned  Miss  Murdstone,  striking  in, 
'  his  character,  I  trust,  would  have  been  altogether  different.' 

'  Or  if  the  poor  child,  his  mother,  had  been  alive,  he  would  still  have  gone  into  the 
respectable  business,  would  he  ?  '  said  my  aunt. 

'  I  believe,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  with  an  inclination  of  his  head,  '  that  Clara 
would  have  disputed  nothing,  which  myself  and  my  sister  Jane  Murdstone  were  agreed 
was  for  the  best.' 

Miss  Murdstone  confirmed  this  with  an  audible  murmur. 

'  Humph  !  '  said  my  aunt.     '  Unfortunate  baby  !  ' 

Mr.  Dick,  who  had  been  rattling  his  money  all  this  time,  was  rattling  it  so  loudly 
now,  that  my  aunt  felt  it  necessary  to  check  him  with  a  look,  before  saying — 

'  The  poor  child's  annuity  died  with  her  ?  ' 

'  Died  with  her,'  replied  Mr.  Murdstone. 

'  And  there  was  no  settlement  of  the  little  property — the  house  and  garden — the 
what  's-its-name  Rookery  without  any  rooks  in  it — upon  her  boy  ?  ' 

'  It  had  been  left  to  her,  unconditionally,  by  her  first  husband,'  Mr.  Murdstone 
began,  when  my  aunt  caught  him  up  with  the  greatest  irascibility  and  impatience. 


MY  AUNT  MAKES  UP  FIEll  MIND  ABOUT  ME     187 

'  Good  Lord,  man,  tJicre  's  no  occasion  to  say  that.  Left  to  her  unconditionally  I 
I  think  I  sec  David  Copperfield  lookinf^  forward  to  any  condition  of  any  sort  or  kind, 
though  it  stared  him  point-blank  in  the  face  !  Of  course  it  was  left  to  her  uncondition- 
ally. But  when  she  married  again — when  slio  to(jk  that  most  disastrous  step  of  marry- 
ing you,  in  short,'  said  my  aunt,  '  to  be  plain — did  no  one  put  in  a  word  for  the  boy  at 
that  time  ?  ' 

'  My  late  wife  loved  her  second  husband,  madam,'  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  '  and 
trusted  implicitly  in  him.' 

'  Your  late  wife,  sir,  was  a  most  unworldly,  most  unhappy,  most  unfortunate 
baby,'  returned  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head  at  him.  '  That 's  what  she  was.  And  now, 
what  have  you  got  to  .say  next  ?  ' 

'  Merely  this,  Miss  Trotwood,'  he  returned.  '  I  am  here  to  take  David  back  ;  to 
take  him  back  unconditionally,  to  dispose  of  him  as  I  think  proper,  and  to  deal  with  him 
as  I  think  right.  I  am  not  here  to  make  any  promise,  or  give  any  pledge  to  anybody. 
You  may  possibly  have  some  idea.  Miss  Trotwood,  of  abetting  him  in  his  running 
away,  and  in  his  complaints  to  you.  Your  manner,  which  I  must  say  does  not  seem 
intended  to  propitiate,  induces  me  to  think  it  possible.  Now  I  must  caution  you  that 
if  you  abet  him  once,  you  abet  him  for  good  and  all  ;  if  you  step  in  between  him  and 
me,  now,  you  must  step  in,  Miss  Trotwood,  for  ever.  I  cannot  trifle,  or  be  trifled  with. 
I  am  here,  for  the  first  and  last  time,  to  take  him  away.  Is  he  ready  to  go  ?  If  he  is 
not — and  you  tell  me  he  is  not ;  on  any  pretence  ;  it  is  indifferent  to  me  what — 
my  doors  are  shut  against  him  henceforth,  and  yours,  I  take  it  for  granted,  are  open 
to  him.' 

To  this  address,  my  aunt  had  listened  with  the  closest  attention,  sitting  perfectly 
upright,  with  her  hands  folded  on  one  knee,  and  looking  grimly  on  the  speaker.  When 
he  had  finished,  she  turned  her  eyes  so  as  to  command  Miss  Murdstone,  without  other- 
wise disturbing  her  attitude,  and  said — 

'  Well,  ma'am,  have  you  got  anything  to  remark  ?  ' 

'  Indeed,  Miss  Trotwood,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  '  all  that  I  could  say  has  been  so 
well  said  by  my  brother,  and  all  that  I  know  to  be  the  fact  has  been  so  plainly  stated 
by  him,  that  I  have  nothing  to  add  except  my  thanks  for  your  politeness.  For  your 
very  great  politeness,  I  am  sure,'  said  Miss  Murdstone  ;  with  an  irony  which  no  more 
affected  my  aunt  than  it  discomposed  the  cannon  I  had  slept  by  at  Chatham. 

'  And  what  does  the  boy  say  ?  '  said  my  aimt.     '  Are  you  ready  to  go,  David  ?  ' 

I  answered  no,  and  entreated  her  not  to  let  me  go.  I  said  that  neither  Mr.  nor 
Miss  Murdstone  had  ever  liked  me,  or  had  ever  been  kind  to  me.  That  they  had  made 
my  mamma,  who  always  loved  me  dearly,  unhappy  about  me,  and  that  I  knew  it  well, 
and  that  Peggotty  knew  it.  I  said  that  I  had  been  more  miserable  than  I  thought 
anybody  could  believe  who  only  knew  how  young  I  was.  And  I  begged  and  prayed 
my  aunt — I  forget  in  what  terms  now,  but  I  remember  that  they  affected  me  very 
much  then — to  befriend  and  protect  me,  for  my  father's  sake. 

'  Mr.  Dick,'  said  my  aunt ;   '  what  shall  I  do  with  this  child  ?  ' 

Mr.  Dick  considered,  hesitated,  brightened,  and  rejoined,  '  Have  him  measured 
for  a  suit  of  clothes  directly.' 

'  Mr.  Dick,'  said  my  aunt  triumphantly,  '  give  me  your  hand,  for  your  common 
sense  is  invaluable.'  Having  shaken  it  with  great  cordiaUty,  she  pulled  me  towards 
her  and  said  to  Mr.  Murdstone — 

'  You  can  go  when  you  like  ;   I  'II  take  my  chance  with  the  boy.     If  he  's  all  you 

e2 


138  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

say  he  is,  at  least  I  can  do  as  much  for  him  then,  as  you  have  done.  But  I  don't  believe 
a  word  of  it.' 

'  Miss  Trotwood,'  rejoined  Mr.  Murdstone,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  as  he  rose, 
'  if  you  were  a  gentleman ' 

'  Bah  !     Stuff  and  nonsense  !  '  said  my  aunt.     '  Don't  talk  to  me  !  ' 

'  How  exquisitely  polite  !  '  exclaimed  Miss  Murdstone,  rising.  '  Overpowering, 
really  !  ' 

'  Do  you  think  I  don't  know,'  said  my  aunt,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sister,  and 
continuing  to  address  the  brother,  and  to  shake  her  head  at  him  with  infinite  expression, 
'  what  kind  of  life  you  must  have  led  that  poor,  unhappy,  misdirected  baby  ?  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  what  a  woeful  day  it  was  for  the  soft  little  creature  when  you 
first  came  in  her  way — smirking  and  making  great  eyes  at  her,  I  '11  be  bound,  as  if 
you  couldn't  say  boh  !  to  a  goose  !  ' 

'  I  never  heard  anything  so  elegant !  '  said  Miss  Murdstone. 

'  Do  you  think  I  can't  understand  you  as  well  as  if  I  had  seen  you,'  pursued  my 
aunt,  '  now  that  I  do  see  and  hear  you — which  I  tell  you  candidly,  is  anything  but  a 
pleasvire  to  me  ?  Oh  yes,  bless  us  !  who  so  smooth  and  silky  as  Mr.  Murdstone  at 
first !  The  poor,  benighted  innocent  had  never  seen  such  a  man.  He  was  made 
of  sweetness.  He  worshipped  her.  He  doted  on  her  boy — tenderly  doted  on  him  ! 
He  was  to  be  another  father  to  him,  and  they  were  all  to  live  together  in  a  garden  of 
roses,  weren't  they  ?     Ugh  !     Get  along  with  you,  do  !  '  said  my  aunt. 

'  I  never  heard  anything  like  this  person  in  my  life  !  '  exclaimed  Miss 
Murdstone. 

'  And  when  you  had  made  sure  of  the  poor  little  fool,'  said  my  aunt — '  God  forgive 
me  that  I  should  call  her  so,  and  she  gone  where  you  won't  go  in  a  hurry — because 
you  had  not  done  wrong  enough  to  her  and  hers,  you  must  begin  to  train  her,  must 
you  ?  begin  to  break  her,  like  a  poor  caged  bird,  and  wear  her  deluded  life  away,  in 
teaching  her  to  sing  your  notes  ?  ' 

'  This  is  either  insanity  or  intoxication,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  a  perfect  agony 
at  not  being  able  to  turn  the  current  of  my  aunt's  address  towards  herself ;  '  and  my 
suspicion  is  that  it 's  intoxication.' 

Miss  Betsey,  without  taking  the  least  notice  of  the  interruption,  continued  to 
address  herself  to  Mr.  Murdstone  as  if  there  had  been  no  such  thing. 

'  Mr.  Murdstone,'  she  said,  shaking  her  finger  at  him,  '  you  were  a  tyrant  to  the 
simple  baby,  and  you  broke  her  heart.  She  was  a  loving  baby — I  know  that ;  I  knew 
it  years  before  you  ever  saw  her— and  through  the  best  part  of  her  weakness  you  gave 
her  the  wounds  she  died  of.  There  is  the  truth  for  your  comfort,  however  you  like  it. 
And  you  and  your  instruments  may  make  the  most  of  it.' 

'  Allow  me  to  inquire.  Miss  Trotwood,'  interposed  Miss  Murdstone,  '  whom  you 
are  pleased  to  call,  in  a  choice  of  words  in  which  I  am  not  experienced,  my  brother's 
instruments  ?  ' 

Still  stone-deaf  to  the  voice,  and  utterly  unmoved  by  it.  Miss  Betsey  pursued  her 
discourse. 

'  It  was  clear  enough,  as  I  have  told  you,  years  before  you  ever  saw  her — and 
why  in  the  mysterious  dispensations  of  Providence,  you  ever  did  see  her,  is  more  than 
humanity  can  comprehend — it  was  clear  enough  that  the  poor  soft  little  thing  would 
marry  somebody,  at  some  time  or  other  ;  but  I  did  hope  it  wouldn't  have  been  as  bad 
as  it  has  turned  out.     That  was  the  time,  Mr.  Murdstone,  when  she  gave  birth  to  her 


MY  AUNT  MAKES  UP  HER  MIND  AliOUT  ME     139 

boy  here,'  said  my  aunt ;  '  to  the  poor  child  you  sometimes  tormented  her  through 
afterwards,  which  is  a  disagreeable  rcmcrnbnuicc,  and  makes  the  sight  of  him  odious 
now.  Aye,  aye  !  you  needn't  wince  !  '  said  my  aunt.  '  I  know  it 's  true  without 
that.' 

He  had  stood  by  the  door,  all  this  while,  observant  of  her,  with  a  smile  upon  his 
face,  though  his  black  eyebrows  were  heavily  contracted.  I  remarked  now,  that, 
though  the  smile  was  on  his  face  still,  his  colour  had  gone  in  a  moment,  and  he  seemed 
to  breathe  as  if  he  had  been  running. 

'  Good  day,  sir,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  good-bye  1  Good  day  to  you,  too,  ma'am,' 
said  my  aunt,  turning  suddenly  upon  his  sister.  '  Let  me  see  you  ride  a  dcnikey  over 
my  green  again,  and  as  sure  as  you  have  a  head  upon  your  shoulders,  I  '11  knock  your 
bonnet  off,  and  tread  upon  it !  ' 

It  would  require  a  painter,  and  no  common  painter  too,  to  depict  my  aunt's  face 
as  she  delivered  herself  of  this  very  tinexpccted  sentiment,  and  Miss  Murdstone's  face 
as  she  heard  it.  But  the  manner  of  the  speech,  no  less  than  the  matter,  was  so  fiery, 
that  Miss  Murdstone,  without  a  word  in  answer,  discreetly  put  her  arm  through  her 
lr)rother's,  and  walked  haughtily  out  of  the  cottage  ;  my  aunt  remaining  in  the  window 
looking  after  them  ;  prepared,  I  have  no  doubt,  in  case  of  the  donkey's  reappearance, 
to  carry  her  threat  into  instant  execution. 

No  attempt  at  defiance  being  made,  however,  her  face  gradually  relaxed,  and  became 
so  pleasant,  that  I  was  emboldened  to  kiss  and  thank  her ;  which  I  did  with  great 
heartiness,  and  with  both  my  arms  clasped  round  her  neck.  I  then  shook  hands 
with  Mr.  Dick,  who  shook  hands  with  me  a  great  many  times,  and  hailed  this  happy 
close  of  the  proceedings  with  repeated  bursts  of  laughter. 

'  You  '11  consider  yourself  guardian,  jointly  with  me,  of  this  child,  Mr.  Dick,' 
said  my  aunt. 

'  I  shall  be  delighted,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  '  to  be  the  guardian  of  David's  son.' 

'  Very  good,'  returned  my  aunt,  '  thai 's  settled.  I  have  been  thinking,  do  you 
know,  Mr.  Dick,  that  I  might  call  him  Trotwood  ?  ' 

'  Certainly,  certainly.  Call  him  Trotwood,  certainly,'  said  Mr.  Dick.  '  David's 
son  's  Trotwood.' 

'  Trotwood  Copperfaeld,  you  mean,'  returned  my  aunt. 

'  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Yes.  Trotwood  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  a  little 
abashed. 

My  aunt  took  so  kindly  to  the  notion,  that  some  ready-made  clothes,  which  were 
purchased  for  me  that  afternoon,  Avere  marked  '  Trotwood  Copperfield,'  in  her  own 
handwriting,  and  in  indelible  marking-ink,  before  1  put  them  on  ;  and  it  was  settled 
that  all  the  other  clothes  which  were  ordered  to  be  made  for  me  (a  complete  outfit 
was  bespoke  that  afternoon)  should  be  marked  in  the  same  way. 

Thus  I  began  my  new  life,  in  a  new  name,  and  with  everything  new  about  me. 
Now  that  the  state  of  doubt  was  over,  I  felt,  for  many  days,  like  one  in  a  dream.  I 
never  thought  that  I  had  a  curious  couple  of  guardians,  in  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Dick. 
I  never  thought  of  anything  about  myself,  distinctly.  The  two  things  clearest  in  my 
mind  were,  that  a  remoteness  had  come  upon  the  old  Blunderstone  life — which  seemed 
to  lie  in  the  haze  of  an  immeasurable  distance  ;  and  that  a  curtain  had  for  ever  fallen 
on  my  life  at  Murdstone  and  Grinby's.  No  one  has  ever  raised  that  curtain  since.  I 
have  lifted  it  for  a  moment,  even  in  this  narrative,  with  a  reluctant  hand,  and  dropped 
it  gladly.     The  remembrance  of  that  life  is  fraught  with  so  much  pain  to  me,  with  so 


140  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

much  mental  suffering  and  want  of  hope,  that  I  have  never  had  the  courage  even  to 
examine  how  long  I  was  doomed  to  lead  it.  Whether  it  lasted  for  a  year,  or  more,  or 
less,  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that  it  was,  and  ceased  to  be  ;  and  that  I  have 
written,  and  there  I  leave  it. 


CHAPTER    XV 

I    MAKE   ANOTHER    BEGINNING 

MR.  DICK  and  I  soon  became  the  best  of  friends,  and  very  often,  when  his 
day's  work  was  done,  went  out  together  to  fly  the  great  kite.  Every  day 
of  his  life  he  had  a  long  sitting  at  the  Memorial,  which  never  made  the 
least  progress,  however  hard  he  laboured,  for  King  Charles  the  First 
always  strayed  into  it,  sooner  or  later,  and  then  it  was  thrown  aside,  and  another  one 
begun.  The  patience  and  hope  with  which  he  bore  these  perpetual  disappointments, 
the  mild  perception  he  had  that  there  was  something  wrong  about  King  Charles  the 
First,  the  feeble  efforts  he  made  to  keep  him  out,  and  the  certainty  with  which  he  came 
in,  and  tumbled  the  Memorial  out  of  all  shape,  made  a  deep  impression  upon  me.  Wliat 
Mr.  Dick  supposed  would  come  of  the  Memorial,  if  it  were  completed  ;  where  he  thought 
it  was  to  go,  or  what  he  thought  it  was  to  do  ;  he  knew  no  more  than  anybody  else, 
I  believe.  Nor  was  it  at  all  necessary  that  he  should  trouble  himself  with  such  questions, 
for  if  anything  were  certain  under  the  sun,  it  was  certain  that  the  Memorial  never  would 
be  finished. 

It  was  quite  an  affecting  sight,  I  used  to  think,  to  see  him  with  the  kite  when  it 
was  up  a  great  height  in  the  air.  What  he  had  told  me,  in  his  room,  about  his  belief 
in  its  disseminating  the  statements  pasted  on  it,  which  were  nothing  but  old  leaves  of 
abortive  Memorials,  might  have  been  a  fancy  with  him  sometimes  ;  but  not  when 
he  was  out,  looking  up  at  the  kite  in  the  sky,  and  feeling  it  pull  and  tug  at  his  hand. 
He  never  looked  so  serene  as  he  did  then.  I  used  to  fancy,  as  I  sat  by  him  of  an  evening, 
on  a  green  slope,  and  saw  him  watch  the  kite  high  in  the  quiet  air,  that  it  lifted  his  mind 
out  of  its  confusion,  and  bore  it  (such  was  my  boyish  thought)  into  the  skies.  As  he 
wound  the  string  in,  and  it  came  lower  and  lower  down  out  of  the  beautiful  light,  until 
it  fluttered  to  the  ground,  and  lay  there  like  a  dead  thing,  he  seemed  to  wake  gradually 
out  of  a  dream  ;  and  I  remember  to  have  seen  him  take  it  up,  and  look  about  him  in 
a  lost  way,  as  if  they  had  both  come  down  together,  so  that  I  pitied  him  with  all  my 
heart. 

While  I  advanced  in  friendship  and  intimacy  with  Mr.  Dick,  I  did  not  go  back- 
ward in  the  favour  of  his  staunch  friend,  my  aunt.  She  took  so  kindly  to  me,  that,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  she  shortened  my  adopted  name  of  Trotwood  into  Trot ; 
and  even  encouraged  me  to  hope,  that  if  I  went  on  as  I  had  begun,  I  might  take  equal 
rank  in  her  affections  with  my  sister  Betsey  Trotwood. 

'  Trot,'  said  my  aunt  one  evening,  when  the  backgammon-board  was  placed  as 
usual  for  herself  and  Mr.  Dick,  '  we  must  not  forget  your  education.' 

This  was  my  only  subject  of  anxiety,  and  I  felt  quite  delighted  by  her  referring 
to  it. 

'  Should  you  like  to  go  to  school  at  Canterbury  ?  '  said  my  aunt. 


r  MAKE  ANOTHER  BEGINNING  ui 

I  replied  that  I  should  like;  it  very  much,  as  it  was  so  near  her. 

'  Good,'  said  luy  aiuit.     '  Should  you  like  to  go  to-morrow  ?  ' 

Being  already  no  stranger  to  the  general  rapidity  of  my  aunt's  evolutions,  I  was 
not  surprised  hy  the  suddenness  of  the  fjioposal,  and  said,  '  Yes.' 

'  Good,"  said  my  aunt  again.  '  Janet,  hire  tlie  grey  pony  and  chaise  to-morrow 
morning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  pack  up  Master  Trotwood's  clothes  to-night.' 

I  was  greatly  elated  by  tliese  orders  ;  V)ut  my  heart  smote  mc  for  my  selfishness, 
when  I  witnessed  their  effect  on  Mr.  Diek,  who  was  so  low-spirited  at  the  prospect  of 
our  separation,  and  played  so  ill  in  consequence,  that  my  aunt,  after  giving  him  several 
admonitory  raps  on  the  knuckles  with  her  dice-box,  shut  up  the  board,  and  declined 
to  play  with  him  any  more.  But,  on  hearing  from  my  aunt  that  I  should  sometimes 
come  over  on  a  Saturday,  and  that  he  could  sometimes  come  and  see  me  on  a  Wednes- 
day, he  revived ;  and  vowed  to  make  another  kite  for  those  occasions,  of  proportions 
greatly  surpassing  the  present  one.  In  the  morning  he  was  down-hearted  again,  and 
would  have  sustained  himself  by  giving  me  all  the  money  he  had  in  his  possession, 
gold  and  silver  too,  if  my  aunt  had  not  interposed,  and  limited  the  gift  to  five  shillings, 
which,  at  his  earnest  petition,  were  afterwards  increased  to  ten.  We  parted  at  the 
garden-gate  in  a  most  affectionate  manner,  and  Mr.  Dick  did  not  go  into  the  house 
until  my  aunt  had  driven  me  out  of  sight  of  it. 

My  aunt,  who  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  public  opinion,  drove  the  grey  pony 
through  Dover  in  a  masterly  manner  ;  sitting  high  and  stiff  like  a  state  coachman, 
keeping  a  steady  eye  upon  him  wherever  he  went,  and  making  a  point  of  not  letting 
him  have  his  own  way  in  any  respect.  When  we  came  into  the  country  road,  she 
permitted  him  to  relax  a  little,  however  ;  and  looking  at  me  down  in  a  valley  of  cushion 
by  her  side,  asked  me  whether  I  was  happy  ? 

'  Very  happy,  indeed,  thank  you,  aunt,'  I  said. 

She  was  much  gratified  ;  and  both  her  hands  being  occupied,  patted  me  on  the 
head  with  her  whip. 

'  Is  it  a  large  school,  aunt  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  Why,  I  don't  know,'  said  my  aunt.     '  We  are  going  to  Mr.  Wickfield's  first.' 

'  Does  he  keep  a  school  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  No,  Trot,'  said  my  aunt.     '  He  keeps  an  office.' 

I  asked  for  no  more  information  about  Mr.  Wiekfield,  as  she  offered  none,  and  we 
conversed  on  other  subjects  until  we  came  to  Canterburj%  where,  as  it  was  market-day, 
my  aunt  had  a  great  opportunity  of  insinuating  the  grey  pony  among  carts,  baskets, 
vegetables,  and  hucksters'  goods.  The  hairbreadth  turns  and  twists  we  made,  drew 
down  upon  us  a  variety  of  speeches  from  the  people  standing  about,  which  were  not 
always  complimentary  ;  but  my  aunt  drove  on  with  perfect  indifference,  and  I  dare 
say  would  have  taken  her  own  way  with  as  much  coolness  through  an  enemy's 
country. 

At  length  we  stopped  before  a  verj'  old  liouse  bulging  out  over  the  road  ;  a  house 
with  long  low  lattice-windows  bulging  out  still  farther,  and  beams  with  carved  heads  on 
the  ends  bulging  out  too,  so  that  I  fancied  the  whole  house  was  leaning  forward,  trying 
to  see  who  was  passing  on  the  narrow  pavement  below.  It  was  quite  spotless  in  its 
cleanliness.  The  old-fashioned  brass  knocker  on  the  low  arched  door,  ornamented 
with  carved  garlands  of  fruit  and  flowers,  twinkled  ILke  a  star ;  the  two  stone  steps 
descending  to  the  door  were  as  white  as  if  they  had  been  covered  with  fair  linen  ;  and 
all  the  angles  and  corners,  and  carvings  and  mouldings,  and  quaint  little  panes  of  glass, 


142  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

and  quainter  little  windows,  though  as  old  as  the  hills,  were  as  pure  as  any  snow  that 
ever  fell  upon  the  hills. 

WTien  the  pony-chaise  stopped  at  the  door,  and  my  eyes  were  intent  upon  the 
house,  I  saw  a  cadaverous  face  appear  at  a  small  window  on  the  ground  floor  (in  a 
little  round  tower  that  formed  one  side  of  the  house),  and  quickly  disappear.  The  low 
arched  door  then  opened,  and  the  face  came  out.  It  was  quite  as  cadaverous  as  it  had 
looked  in  the  window,  though  in  the  grain  of  it  there  was  that  tinge  of  red  which  is 
sometimes  to  be  observed  in  the  skins  of  red-haired  people.  It  belonged  to  a  red- 
haired  person — a  youth  of  fifteen,  as  I  take  it  now,  but  looking  much  older — whose 
hair  was  cropped  as  close  as  the  closest  stubble  ;  who  had  hardly  any  eyebrows,  and 
no  eyelashes,  and  eyes  of  a  red-brown,  so  unsheltered  and  unshaded,  that  I  remember 
wondering  how  he  went  to  sleep.  He  was  high-shouldered  and  bony  ;  dressed  in 
decent  black,  with  a  white  wisp  of  a  neckcloth  ;  buttoned  up  to  the  throat ;  and  had 
a  long,  lank,  skeleton  hand,  which  particularly  attracted  my  attention,  as  he  stood 
at  the  pony's  head,  rubbing  his  chin  with  it,  and  looking  up  at  us  in  the  chaise. 

'  Is  Mr.  Wickfield  at  home,  Uriah  Heep  ?  '  said  my  aunt. 

'  Mr.  Wickfield  's  at  home,  ma'am,'  said  Uriah  Heep,  '  if  you  '11  please  to  walk 
in  there  '  :   pointing  with  his  long  hand  to  the  room  he  meant. 

We  got  out ;  and  leaving  him  to  hold  the  pony,  went  into  a  long  low  parlour 
looking  towards  the  street,  from  the  window  of  which  I  caught  a  glimpse,  as  I  went  in, 
of  Uriah  Heep  breathing  into  the  pony's  nostrils,  and  immediately  covering  them 
with  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  putting  some  spell  upon  him.  Opposite  to  the  tall  old 
chimney-piece,  were  two  portraits  :  one  of  a  gentleman  with  grey  hair  (though  not 
by  any  means  an  old  man)  and  black  eyebrows,  who  was  looking  over  some  papers 
tied  together  with  red  tape  ;  the  other,  of  a  lady,  with  a  very  placid  and  sweet  expres- 
sion of  face,  who  was  looking  at  me. 

I  believe  I  was  turning  about  in  search  of  Uriah's  picture,  when,  a  door  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room  opening,  a  gentleman  entered,  at  sight  of  whom  I  turned  to 
the  first-mentioned  portrait  again,  to  make  quite  sure  that  it  had  not  come  out  of 
its  frame.  But  it  was  stationary  ;  and  as  the  gentleman  advanced  into  the  light,  I 
saw  that  he  was  some  years  older  than  when  he  had  had  his  picture  painted. 

'  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood,'  said  the  gentleman,  '  pray  walk  in.  I  was  engaged  for 
a  moment,  but  you  '11  excuse  my  being  busy.  You  know  my  motive.  I  have  but  one 
in  life.' 

Miss  Betsey  thanked  him,  and  we  went  into  his  room,  which  was  furnished  as  an 
office,  with  books,  papers,  tin  boxes,  and  so  forth.  It  looked  into  a  garden,  and  had 
an  iron  safe  let  into  the  wall ;  so  immediately  over  the  mantel-shelf,  that  I  wondered, 
as  I  sat  down,  how  the  sweeps  got  round  it  when  they  swept  the  chimney. 

'  Well,  Miss  Trotwood,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield  ;  for  I  soon  found  that  it  was  he,  and 
that  he  was  a  lawyer,  and  steward  of  the  estates  of  a  rich  gentleman  of  the  county  ; 
'  what  wind  blows  you  here  ?     Not  an  ill  wind,  I  hope  ?  ' 

'  No,'  replied  my  aunt,  '  I  have  not  come  for  any  law.' 

'  That 's  right,  ma'am,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  '  You  had  better  come  for  an\'thing 
else.' 

His  hair  was  quite  white  now,  though  his  eyebrows  were  still  black.  He  had  a 
very  agreeable  face,  and,  I  thought,  was  handsome.  There  was  a  certain  richness  in 
his  complexion,  which  I  had  been  long  accustomed,  under  Peggotty's  tuition,  to 
connect  with  port  wine  ;  and  I  fancied  it  was  in  his  voice  too,  and  referred  his  growing 


T  MAKK  ANOTIIEM  BEGINNING  ]v.i 

corpulency  to  the  same  cause.  He  was  very  cleanly  dressed,  in  a  blue  coat,  striped 
waistcoat,  and  nankeen  trousers  ;  and  his  fine  frilled  shirt  and  cambric  neckcloth 
looked  unusuiilly  soft  and  white,  reminding  my  strolling  fancy  (I  call  to  mind)  of  the 
j)lumage  on  tiic  breast  of  a  swan. 

'  This  is  my  nephew,'  said  my  aunt. 

'  Wasn't  aware  you  had  one,  Miss  Trotwood,'  said  Mr.  Wiekfield. 

'  My  grand-nephew,  that  is  to  say,'  observed  my  aunt. 

'  Wasn't  aware  you  had  a  graiid-nephcw,  I  give  you  my  word,'  said  Mr.  Wiekfield. 

'  I  have  adopted  him,'  said  my  aunt,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  importing  that  his 
knowledge  and  his  ignorance  were  all  one  to  her,  '  and  I  have  brought  liim  here,  to  put 
him  to  a  scliool  where  he  may  be  thoroughly  well  taught,  and  well  treated.  Now  tell 
me  where  that  school  is,  and  what  it  is,  and  all  about  it.' 

'  Before  I  can  advise  you  properly,'  said  Mr.  Wiekfield, — '  the  old  question,  you 
know.     What 's  your  motive  in  this  ?  ' 

'  Deuce  take  the  man  !  '  exclaimed  my  aunt.  '  Always  fishing  for  motives,  when 
they  're  on  the  surface  1     Why,  to  make  the  child  happy  and  useful.' 

'  It  must  be  a  mixed  motive,  I  think,'  said  Mr.  Wiekfield,  shaking  his  head  and 
smiling  incredulously. 

'  A  mixed  fiddlestick  !  '  returned  my  aunt.  '  You  claim  to  have  one  plain  motive 
in  all  you  do  yourself.  You  don't  suppose,  I  hope,  that  you  are  the  only  plain  dealer 
in  the  world  ?  ' 

'  Ay,  but  I  have  only  one  motive  in  life.  Miss  Trotwood,'  he  rejoined,  smiling. 
'  Other  people  have  dozens,  scores,  hundreds.  I  have  only  one.  There  's  the  differ- 
ence. However,  that 's  beside  the  question.  The  best  school  !  Whatever  the 
motive,  you  want  the  best  ?  ' 

My  aunt  nodded  assent. 

'  At  the  best  we  have,'  said  Mr.  Wiekfield,  considering,  '  your  nephew  couldn't 
board  just  now.' 

'  But  he  could  board  somewhere  else,  I  suppose  ?  '  suggested  my  aunt. 

Mr.  Wiekfield  thought  I  could.  After  a  little  discussion,  he  proposed  to  take  my 
aunt  to  the  school,  that  she  might  see  it  and  judge  for  herself ;  also,  to  take  her,  with 
the  same  object,  to  two  or  three  houses  where  he  thought  I  could  be  boarded.  My  aunt 
embracing  the  proposal,  we  were  all  three  going  out  together,  when  he  stopped  and 
said — 

'  Our  little  friend  here  might  have  some  motive,  perhaps,  for  objecting  to  the 
arrangements.     I  think  we  had  better  leave  him  behind  ?  ' 

My  aunt  seemed  disposed  to  contest  the  point  ;  l)ut  to  facilitate  matters  I  said 
I  would  gladly  remain  behind,  if  they  pleased  ;  and  returned  into  Mr.  \Vickfield's 
office,  where  I  sat  down  again,  in  the  chair  I  had  first  occupied,  to  await  their  return. 

It  so  happened  that  this  chair  was  opposite  a  narrow  passage,  which  ended  in  the 
little  circular  room  where  I  had  seen  Uriah  Hecp's  pale  face  looking  out  of  window. 
Uriah,  having  taken  the  pony  to  a  neighbouring  stable,  was  at  work  at  a  desk  in  this 
room,  which  had  a  brass  frame  on  the  top  to  hang  papers  upon,  and  on  which  the 
writing  he  was  making  a  copy  of  was  then  hanging.  Though  his  face  was  towards 
me,  I  thought,  for  some  time,  the  writing  being  between  us,  that  he  could  not  see  me  ; 
but  looking  that  way  more  attentively,  it  made  me  uncomfortable  to  observe  that 
every  now  and  then,  his  sleepless  eyes  would  come  below  the  writing,  like  two  red  suns, 
and  stealthily  stare  at  me  for  I  dare  say  a  whole  minute  at  a  time,  during  which  his 


144  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

pen  went,  or  pretended  to  go,  as  cleverly  as  ever.  I  made  several  attempts  to  get  out 
of  their  way — such  as  standing  on  a  chair  to  look  at  a  map  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  and  poring  over  the  columns  of  a  Kentish  newspaper — but  they  always  attracted 
me  back  again  ;  and  whenever  I  looked  towards  those  two  red  suns,  I  was  sure  to  fuid 
them,  either  just  rising  or  just  setting. 

At  length,  much  to  my  relief,  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Wickfield  came  back,  after  a 
pretty  long  absence.  They  were  not  so  successful  as  I  could  have  wished  ;  for  though 
the  advantages  of  the  school  were  undeniable,  my  aunt  had  not  approved  of  any  of 
the  boarding-houses  proposed  for  me. 

'  It 's  very  unfortunate,'  said  my  aunt.     '  I  don't  know  what  do  do.  Trot.' 

'  It  does  happen  unfortunately,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  '  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  you 
can  do.  Miss  Trotwood.' 

'  What 's  that  ?  '  inquired  my  aunt. 

'  Leave  your  nephew  here,  for  the  present.  He  's  a  quiet  fellow.  He  won't 
disturb  me  at  all.  It 's  a  capital  house  for  study.  As  quiet  as  a  monastery,  and 
almost  as  roomy.     Leave  him  here.' 

My  aimt  evidently  liked  the  offer,  though  she  was  delicate  of  accepting  it.  So 
didL 

'  Come,  Miss  Trotwood,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  '  This  is  the  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty. It 's  only  a  temporary  arrangement,  you  know.  If  it  don't  act  well,  or  don't 
quite  accord  with  our  mutual  convenience,  he  can  easily  go  to  the  rightabout.  There 
will  be  time  to  find  some  better  place  for  him  in  the  meanwhile.  You  had  better 
determine  to  leave  him  here  for  the  present !  ' 

'  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,'  said  my  aunt ;   '  and  so  is  he,  I  see  ;  but ' 

'  Come  !  I  know  what  you  mean,'  cried  Mr.  Wickfield.  '  You  shall  not  be 
oppressed  by  the  receipt  of  favours.  Miss  Trotwood.  You  may  pay  for  him,  if  you 
like.     We  won't  be  hard  about  terms,  but  you  shall  pay  if  you  will.' 

'  On  that  understanding,'  said  my  aunt,  '  though  it  doesn't  lessen  the  real  obliga- 
tion, I  shall  be  very  glad  to  leave  him.' 

*  Then  come  and  see  my  little  housekeeper,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 

We  accordingly  went  up  a  wonderful  old  staircase  ;  with  a  balustrade  so  broad 
that  we  might  have  gone  up  that,  almost  as  easily  ;  and  into  a  shady  old  drawing-room, 
lighted  by  some  three  or  four  of  the  quaint  windows  I  had  looked  up  at  from  the 
street :  which  had  old  oak  seats  in  them,  that  seemed  to  have  come  of  the  same  trees 
as  the  shining  oak  floor,  and  the  great  beams  in  the  ceiling.  It  was  a  prettily  furnished 
room,  with  a  piano  and  some  lively  furniture  in  red  and  green,  and  some  flowers.  It 
seemed  to  be  all  old  nooks  and  comers  ;  and  in  every  nook  and  corner  there  was  some 
queer  little  table,  or  cupboard,  or  bookcase,  or  seat,  or  something  or  other,  that  made 
me  think  there  was  not  such  another  good  corner  in  the  room  ;  until  I  looked  at  the 
next  one,  and  found  it  equal  to  it,  if  not  better.  On  everything  there  was  the  same 
air  of  retirement  and  cleanliness  that  marked  the  house  outside. 

Mr.  Wickfield  tapped  at  a  door  in  a  corner  of  the  panelled  wall,  and  a  girl  of  about 
my  own  age  came  quickly  out  and  kissed  him.  On  her  face,  I  saw  immediately  the 
placid  and  sweet  expression  of  the  lady  whose  picture  had  looked  at  me  downstairs. 
It  seemed  to  my  imagination  as  if  the  portrait  had  grown  womanly,  and  the  original 
remained  a  child.  Although  her  face  was  quite  bright  and  happy,  there  was  a  tran- 
quillity about  it,  and  about  her — a  quiet,  good,  calm  spirit, — that  I  never  have  for- 
gotten ;   that  I  never  shall  forget. 


I  MAKE  AN()TIII]ll  lii:(;iNNING  14> 

This  was  his  Httle  housekeeper,  his  daughter  Agnes,  Mr.  Wickficld  said.  When  I 
heard  how  he  said  it,  and  saw  how  lie  held  her  hand,  I  guessed  what  the  one  motive  of 
his  hfe  was. 

She  had  a  little  basket-trifle  hanging  at  her  side,  with  keys  in  it ;  and  she  looked 
as  staid  and  as  diserect  a  housekeeper  as  the  old  house  could  have.  Slie  listened  to  her 
father  as  he  told  her  about  me,  with  a  pleasant  face  ;  and  when  he  had  concluded, 
proposed  to  n»y  aunt  that  we  should  go  upstairs  and  see  my  room.  We  all  went  to- 
gether, she  before  us.  A  glorious  old  room  it  was,  with  more  oak  beams,  and  diamond 
panes  ;   and  the  broad  balustrade  going  all  the  way  up  to  it. 

I  cannot  call  to  mind  where  or  when,  in  my  childhood,  I  had  seen  a  stained-glass 
window  in  a  church.  Nor  do  I  recollect  its  subject.  But  I  know  that  when  I  saw  her 
turn  round,  in  the  grave  light  of  the  old  staircase,  and  wait  for  us,  above,  I  thought  of 
that  window  ;  and  I  associated  something  of  its  tranquil  brightness  with  Agnes  Wick- 
field  ever  afterwards. 

My  aunt  was  as  happy  as  I  was,  in  the  arrangement  made  for  me,  and  we  went 
down  to  the  drawing-room  again,  well  pleased  and  gratified.  As  she  would  not  hear 
of  staying  to  dinner,  lest  she  should  by  any  chance  fail  to  arrive  at  home  with  the  grey 
pony  before  dark  ;  and  as  I  apprehend  Mr.  Wickfield  knew  her  too  well,  to  argue  any 
point  with  her  ;  some  lunch  was  provided  for  her  there,  and  Agnes  went  back  to  her 
governess,  and  Mr.  Wickfield  to  his  office.  So  we  were  left  to  take  leave  of  one  another 
without  any  restraint. 

She  told  me  that  everything  would  be  arranged  for  me  by  Mr.  Wickfield,  and 
that  I  should  want  for  nothing,  and  gave  me  the  kindest  words  and  the  best  advice. 

'  Trot,'  said  my  aunt  in  conclusion,  '  be  a  credit  to  yourself,  to  me,  and  Mr.  Dick, 
and  Heaven  be  with  you  !  ' 

I  was  greatly  overcome,  and  could  only  thank  her,  again  and  again,  and  send 
my  love  to  Mr.  Dick. 

'  Never,'  said  my  aunt,  '  be  mean  in  anything  ;  never  be  false  ;  never  be  cruel. 
Avoid  those  three  vices.  Trot,  and  I  can  always  be  hopeful  of  you.' 

I  promised,  as  well  as  I  could,  that  I  would  not  abuse  her  kindness  or  forget  her 
admonition. 

'  The  pony  's  at  the  door,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  I  am  off !     Stay  here.' 

With  these  words  she  embraced  me  hastily,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  shutting 
the  door  after  her.  At  first  I  was  startled  by  so  abrupt  a  departure,  and  almost  feared 
I  had  displeased  her ;  but  when  I  looked  into  the  street,  and  saw  how  dejectedly  she 
got  into  the  chaise,  and  drove  away  without  looking  up,  I  understood  her  better,  and 
did  not  do  her  that  injustice. 

By  five  o'clock,  which  was  Mr.  Wickfield's  dinner-hour,  I  had  mustered  up  my 
spirits  again,  and  was  ready  for  my  knife  and  fork.  The  cloth  was  only  laid  for  us  two  ; 
but  Agnes  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  before  dinner,  went  down  with  her  father 
and  sat  opposite  to  him  at  table.  I  doubted  whether  he  could  have  dined  without 
her. 

We  did  not  stay  there,  after  dinner,  but  came  upstairs  into  the  drawing-room 
again  ;  in  one  snug  comer  of  which,  Agnes  set  glasses  for  her  father,  and  a  decanter  of 
port  wine.  I  thought  he  would  have  missed  its  usual  flavour,  if  it  had  been  put  there 
for  him  by  any  other  hands. 

There  he  sat,  taking  his  wine,  and  taking  a  good  deal  of  it,  for  two  hours  ;  while 
Agnes  played  on  the  piano,  worked,  and  talked  to  him  and  me.     He  was,  for  the 


146  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

most  part,  gay  and  cheerful  with  us  ;  but  sometimes  his  eyes  rested  on  her,  and  he  fell 
into  a  brooding  state,  and  was  silent.  She  always  observed  this  quickly,  I  thought, 
and  always  roused  him  with  a  question  or  caress.  Then  he  came  out  of  his  meditation, 
and  drank  more  wine. 

Agnes  made  the  tea,  and  presided  over  it ;  and  the  time  passed  away  after  it,  as 
after  dinner,  until  she  went  to  bed  ;  when  her  father  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her,  and,  she  being  gone,  ordered  candles  in  his  office.     Then  I  went  to  bed  too. 

But  in  the  course  of  the  evening  I  had  rambled  down  to  the  door,  and  a  little 
way  along  the  street,  that  I  might  have  another  peep  at  the  old  houses,  and  the  grey 
cathedral ;  and  might  think  of  my  coming  through  that  old  city  on  my  journey,  and 
of  my  passing  the  very  house  I  lived  in,  without  knowing  it.  As  I  came  back,  I  saw 
Uriah  Heep  shutting  up  the  office  ;  and,  feeling  friendly  towards  everybody,  went  in 
and  spoke  to  him,  and  at  parting,  gave  him  my  hand.  But  oh,  what  a  clammy  hand 
his  was  !  as  ghostly  to  the  touch  as  to  the  sight  !  I  rubbed  mine  afterwards,  to  warm 
it,  and  to  rub  his  off. 

It  was  such  an  uncomfortable  hand,  that,  when  I  went  to  my  room,  it  was  still 
cold  and  wet  upon  my  memory.  Leaning  out  of  window,  and  seeing  one  of  the  faces 
on  the  beam-ends  looking  at  me  sideways,  I  fancied  it  was  Uriah  Heep  got  up  there 
somehow,  and  shut  him  out  in  a  hurry. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

I    AM    A    NEW    BOY    IN    MORE    SENSES    THAN    ONE 

NrEXT  morning,  after  breakfast,  I  entered  on  school-life  again.  I  went, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  Wickfield,  to  the  scene  of  my  future  studies — a 
grave  building  in  a  courtyard,  with  a  learned  air  about  it  that  seemed 
very  well  suited  to  the  stray  rooks  and  jackdaws  who  came  down  from 
the  cathedral  towers  to  walk  with  a  clerkly  bearing  on  the  grass-plot — and  was  intro- 
duced to  my  new  master.  Doctor  Strong. 

Doctor  Strong  looked  almost  as  rusty,  to  my  thinking,  as  the  tall  iron  rails  and 
gates  outside  the  house  ;  and  almost  as  stiff  and  heavy  as  the  great  stone  urns  that 
flanked  them,  and  were  set  up,  on  the  top  of  the  red-brick  wall,  at  regular  distances 
all  round  the  court,  like  sublimated  skittles,  for  Time  to  play  at.  He  was  in  his 
library  (I  mean  Doctor  Strong  was),  with  his  clothes  not  particularly  well  brushed, 
and  his  hair  not  particularly  well  combed  ;  his  knee-smalls  unbraced  ;  his  long  black 
gaiters  unbuttoned  ;  and  his  shoes  yawning  like  two  caverns  on  the  hearth-rug.  Turn- 
ing upon  me  a  lustreless  eye,  that  reminded  me  of  a  long- forgotten  blind  old  horse 
who  once  used  to  crop  the  grass,  and  tumble  over  the  graves,  in  Blunderstone  church- 
yard, he  said  he  was  glad  to  see  me  :  and  then  he  gave  me  his  hand  ;  which  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do  with,  as  it  did  nothing  for  itself. 

But,  sitting  at  work,  not  far  off  from  Doctor  Strong,  was  a  very  pretty  young 
lady — whom  he  called  Annie,  and  who  was  his  daughter,  I  supposed — who  got  me  out 
of  my  difficulty  by  kneeling  down  to  put  Doctor  Strong's  shoes  on,  and  button  his 
gaiters,  which  she  did  with  great  cheerfulness  and  quickness.  When  she  had  finished, 
and  we  were  going  out  to  the  schoolroom,  I  was  much  surprised  to  hear  Mr.  Wickfield, 


I  AM  A    Ni:VV   liOY   IN  MORE  SENSES  TFFAN  ONE      147 

in  bidding  her  good  niorning,  address  her  as  '  Mrs.  Strong  '  ;  and  1  was  wondering 
could  she  be  Doctor  Strong's  son's  wife,  or  could  she  be  Mrs.  Doctor  .Strong,  when 
Doctor  Strong  himself  inu;onseiously  enlightened  me. 

'  Hy  the  bye,  VVieklield,'  he  said,  stopping  in  the  passage  with  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder  ;   '  you  have  not  found  any  suitable  provision  for  my  wife's  cousin  yet  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.     '  No.     Not  yet.' 

'  I  could  wish  it  done  as  soon  as  it  can  be  done,  Wickfield,'  said  Doctor  Stron;^, 
'  for  Jack  Maldon  is  needy,  and  idle  ;  and  of  those  two  bad  things,  worse  things  some- 
times come.  What  does  Doctor  Watts  say,'  he  added,  looking  at  me,  and  moving 
his  head  to  the  time  of  his  quotation,  '  "  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still,  for  idle  hands 
to  do."  ' 

'  Egad,  Doctor,'  returned  Mr.  Wickfield,  '  if  Doctor  Watts  knew  mankind,  he 
might  have  written,  with  as  much  truth,  "  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still,  for  busy 
hands  to  do."  The  busy  people  achieve  their  full  share  of  mischief  in  the  world, 
you  may  rely  upon  it.  What  have  the  people  been  about,  who  have  been  the  busiest 
in  getting  money,  and  in  getting  power,  this  century  or  two  ?     No  mischief  ?  ' 

'  Jack  Maldon  will  never  be  very  busy  in  getting  either,  I  expect,'  said  Doctor 
Strong,  rubbing  his  chin  thoughtfully. 

'  Perhaps  not,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield  ;  '  and  you  bring  me  back  to  the  question 
with  an  apology  for  digressing.  No,  I  have  not  been  able  to  dispose  of  Mr.  Jack 
Maldon  yet.  I  believe,'  he  said  this  with  some  hesitation,  '  I  penetrate  your  motive, 
and  it  makes  the  thing  more  difficult.' 

'  My  motive,'  returned  Doctor  Strong,  '  is  to  make  some  suitable  provision  for  a 
cousin,  and  an  old  playfellow,  of  Annie's.' 

'  Yes,  I  know,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  '  at  home  or  abroad.' 

'  Ay  1  '  replied  the  Doctor,  apparently  wondering  why  he  emphasised  those  words 
so  much.     '  At  home  or  abroad.' 

'  Your  own  expression,  you  know,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.     '  Or  abroad.' 

'  Surely,'  the  Doctor  answered.     '  Surely.     One  or  other.' 

'  One  or  other  ?     Have  you  no  choice  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Wickfield. 

'  No,'  returned  the  Doctor. 

'  No  ?  '  with  astonishment. 

'  Not  the  least.' 

'  No  motive,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  '  for  meaning  abroad,  and  not  at  home  ?  ' 

'  No,'  returned  the  doctor. 

'  I  am  bound  to  believe  you,  and  of  course  I  do  believe  you,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 
'  It  might  have  simplified  my  office  very  much,  if  I  had  known  it  before.  But  I  con- 
fess I  entertained  another  impression.' 

Doctor  Strong  regarded  him  with  a  puzzled  and  doubting  look,  which  almost 
immediately  subsided  into  a  smile  that  gave  me  great  encouragement ;  for  it  was  full 
of  amiability  and  sweetness,  and  there  was  a  simplicity  in  it,  and  indeed  in  his  whole 
manner,  when  the  studious,  pondering  frost  upon  it  was  got  through,  very  attractive 
and  hopeful  to  a  young  scholar  like  me.  Repeating  '  no,'  and  '  not  the  least,'  and  other 
short  assurances  to  the  same  purport,  Doctor  Strong  jogged  on  before  us,  at  a  queer, 
uneven  pace  ;  and  we  followed  :  Mr.  Wickfield  looking  grave,  I  observed,  and  shaking 
his  head  to  himself,  without  knowing  that  I  saw  him. 

The  school-room  was  a  pretty  large  hall,  on  the  quietest  side  of  the  house,  con- 
fronted by  the  stately  stare  of  some  halt-dozen  of  the  great  urns,  and  commanding  a 


148  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

peep  of  an  old  secluded  garden  belonging  to  the  Doctor,  where  the  peaches  were  ripening 
on  the  sunny  south  wall.  There  were  two  great  aloes,  in  tubs,  on  the  turf  outside  the 
windows  ;  the  broad  hard  leaves  of  which  plant  (looking  as  if  they  were  made  of  painted 
tin)  have  ever  since,  by  association,  been  symbolical  to  me  of  silence  and  retirement. 
About  five-and-twenty  boys  were  studiously  engaged  at  their  books  when  we  went  in, 
but  they  rose  to  give  the  Doctor  good  morning,  and  remained  standing  when  they  saw 
Mr.  Wickfield  and  me. 

'  A  new  boy,  young  gentlemen,'  said  the  Doctor  ;    '  Trotwood  Copperfield.' 

One  Adams,  who  was  the  head-boy,  then  stepped  out  of  his  place  and  welcomed 
me.  He  looked  like  a  young  clergyman,  in  his  white  cravat,  but  he  was  very  affable 
and  good-humoured  ;  and  he  showed  me  my  place,  and  presented  me  to  the  masters, 
in  a  gentlemanly  way  that  would  have  put  me  at  my  ease,  if  anything  could. 

It  seemed  to  me  so  long,  however,  since  I  had  been  among  such  boys,  or  among 
any  companions  of  my  own  age,  except  Mick  Walker  and  Mealy  Potatoes,  that  I  felt 
as  strange  as  ever  I  have  done  in  all  my  life.  I  was  so  conscious  of  having  passed 
through  scenes  of  which  they  could  have  no  knowledge,  and  of  having  acquired  ex- 
periences foreign  to  my  age,  appearance,  and  condition  as  one  of  them,  that  I  half 
believed  it  was  an  imposture  to  come  there  as  an  ordinary  little  school-boy.  I  had 
become,  in  the  Murdstone  and  Grinby  time,  however  short  or  long  it  may  have  been, 
so  unused  to  the  sports  and  games  of  boys,  that  I  knew  I  was  awkward  and  inexperi- 
enced in  the  commonest  things  belonging  to  them.  Whatever  I  had  learnt,  had  so 
slipped  away  from  me  in  the  sordid  cares  of  my  life  from  day  to  night,  that  now,  when 
I  was  examined  about  what  I  knew,  I  knew  nothing,  and  was  put  into  the  lowest  form 
of  the  school.  But,  troubled  as  I  was,  by  my  want  of  boyish  skill,  and  of  book-learning 
too,  I  was  made  infinitely  more  uncomfortable  by  the  consideration,  that,  in  what  I 
did  know,  I  was  much  farther  removed  from  my  companions  than  in  what  I  did  not. 
My  mind  ran  upon  what  they  would  think,  if  they  knew  of  my  familiar  acquaintance 
with  the  King's  Bench  Prison  ?  Was  there  an\i^hing  about  me  which  would  reveal  my 
proceedings  in  connection  with  the  Micawber  family — all  those  pawnings,  and  sellings, 
and  suppers — in  spite  of  myself  ?  Suppose  some  of  the  boys  had  seen  me  coming 
through  Canterbury,  wayAvorn  and  ragged,  and  should  find  me  out  ?  What  would 
they  say,  who  made  so  light  of  money,  if  they  could  know  how  I  had  scraped  my  half- 
pence together,  for  the  purchase  of  my  daily  saveloy  and  beer,  or  my  slices  of  pudding  ? 
How  would  it  affect  them,  who  were  so  innocent  of  London  life  and  London  streets, 
to  discover  how  knowing  I  was  (and  was  ashamed  to  be)  in  some  of  the  meanest  phases 
of  both  ?  All  this  ran  in  my  head  so  much,  on  the  first  day  at  Doctor  Strong's,  that  I 
felt  distrustful  of  my  slightest  look  and  gesture  ;  shrunk  within  myself  whensoever  I 
was  approached  by  one  of  my  new  schoolfellows  ;  and  hurried  off,  the  minute  school 
was  over,  afraid  of  committing  myself  in  my  response  to  any  friendly  notice  or 
advance. 

But  there  was  such  an  influence  in  Mr.  Wickfield's  old  house,  that  when  I  knocked 
at  it,  with  my  new  school-books  under  my  arm,  I  began  to  feel  my  uneasiness  softening 
away.  As  I  went  up  to  my  airy  old  room,  the  grave  shadow  of  the  staircase  seemed  to 
fall  upon  my  doubts  and  fears,  and  to  make  the  past  more  indistinct.  I  sat  there, 
sturdily  conning  my  books,  until  dinner-time  (we  were  out  of  school  for  good  at  three) : 
and  went  down,  hopeful  of  becoming  a  passable  sort  of  boy  yet. 

Agnes  was  in  the  drawing-room,  waiting  for  her  father,  who  was  detained  by  some 
one  in  his  office.     She  met  me  with  her  pleasant  smile,  and  asked  mc  how  I  liked  the 


I   AM   A   NI]W   BOY  IN  MOKE  SENSES  TJIAN   ONE      14'j 

school.  I  told  her  I  sliould  like  it  very  much,  I  hoped  ;  but  I  was  a  little  strange  to  it 
at  first. 

'  You  have  never  been  to  school,'  I  said,  '  have  you  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes  1     Every  day.' 

'  Ah,  but  you  mean  here,  at  your  own  home  ?  ' 

'  Papa  couldn't  spare  me  to  go  anywhere  else,'  she  answered,  smilin^^  and  shaking 
her  head.     '  His  housekeeper  must  be  in  his  house,  you  know.' 

'  He  is  very  fond  of  you,  I  am  sure,'  I  said. 

She  nodded  '  Yes,'  and  went  to  the  door  to  listen  for  his  coming  up,  that  she  might 
meet  him  on  the  stairs.     But,  as  he  was  not  there,  she  came  back  again. 

'  Mamma  has  been  dead  ever  since  I  was  born,'  she  said,  in  her  quiet  way.  '  I 
only  know  her  picture,  downstairs.  I  saw  you  looking  at  it  yesterday.  Did  you  think 
whose  it  was  ?  ' 

I  told  her  yes,  because  it  was  so  like  herself. 

'  Papa  says  so,  too,'  said  Agnes,  pleased.     '  Hark  !     That 's  papa  now  ?  ' 

Her  bright  calm  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure  as  she  went  to  meet  him,  and  as 
they  came  in,  hand  in  hand.  He  greeted  me  cordially  ;  and  told  me  I  should  certainly 
be  happy  under  Doctor  Strong,  who  was  one  of  the  gentlest  of  men. 

'  There  may  be  some,  perhaps — I  don't  know  that  there  are — ^who  abuse  his 
kindness,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  '  Never  be  one  of  those,  Trotwood,  in  anything.  He  is 
the  least  suspicious  of  mankind  ;  and  whether  that 's  a  merit,  or  whether  it 's  a  blemish, 
it  deserves  consideration  in  all  dealings  with  the  Doctor,  great  or  small.' 

He  spoke,  I  thought,  as  if  he  were  weary,  or  dissatisfied  with  something  ;  but  I 
did  not  pursue  the  question  in  my  mind,  for  dinner  was  just  then  announced,  and  we 
went  down  and  took  the  same  seats  as  before. 

We  had  scarcely  done  so,  when  Uriah  Heep  put  in  his  red  head  and  his  lank  hand 
at  the  door,  and  said — 

'  Here  's  Mr.  Maldon  begs  the  favour  of  a  word,  sir.' 

'  I  am  but  this  moment  quit  of  Mr.  Maldon,'  said  his  master. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  returned  Uriah  ;  '  but  Mr.  Maldon  has  come  back,  and  he  begs  the  favour 
of  a  word.' 

As  he  held  the  door  open  with  his  hand,  Uriah  looked  at  me,  and  looked  at  Agnes, 
and  looked  at  the  dishes,  and  looked  at  the  plates,  and  looked  at  every  object  in  the 
room,  I  thought — yet  seemed  to  look  at  nothing  ;  he  made  such  an  appearance  all 
the  while  of  keeping  his  red  eyes  dutifully  on  his  master. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon.  It 's  only  to  say,  on  reflection,'  obser^^ed  a  voice  behind 
Uriah,  as  Uriah's  head  was  pushed  away,  and  the  speakers  substituted — '  pray  excuse 
me  for  this  intrusion — that  as  it  seems  I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter,  the  sooner  I  go 
abroad  the  better.  My  cousin  Annie  did  say,  when  we  talked  of  it,  that  she  liked 
to  have  her  friends  within  reach  rather  than  to  have  them  banished,  and  the  old 
Doctor ' 

'  Doctor  Strong,  was  that  ?  '  Mr.  Wickfield  interposed,  gravely. 

'  Doctor  Strong,  of  course,'  returned  the  other ;  '  I  call  him  the  old  Doctor ; 
it 's  all  the  same,  you  know.' 

'  I  don't  know,'  returned  Mr.  Wickfield. 

'  Well,  Doctor  Strong,'  said  the  other.  '  Doctor  Strong  was  of  the  same  mind. 
I  believed.  But  as  it  appears  from  the  course  you  take  with  me  that  he  has  changed 
his  mmd,  why  there  's  no  more  to  be  said,  except  that  the  sooner  I  am  off,  the  better. 


150  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Therefore,  I  thought  I  'd  come  back  and  say,  that  the  sooner  I  am  off  the  better.  When 
a  plunge  is  to  be  made  into  the  water,  it 's  cf  no  use  hngering  on  the  bank.' 

'  There  shall  be  as  little  lingering  as  possible,  in  your  case,  Mr.  Maldon,  you  may 
depend  upon  it,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 

'  Thank  'ee,'  said  the  other.  '  Much  obliged.  I  don't  want  to  look  a  gift-horse 
in  the  mouth,  which  is  not  a  gracious  thing  to  do  ;  otherwise,  I  dare  say,  my  cousin 
Annie  could  easily  arrange  it  in  her  own  way.  I  suppose  Annie  would  only  have  to 
say  to  the  old  Doctor ' 

'  Meaning  that  Mrs.  Strong  would  only  have  to  say  to  her  husband — do  I  follow 
you  ?  '  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 

'  Quite  so,'  returned  the  other,  '  — would  only  have  to  say,  that  she  wanted  such 
and  such  a  thing  to  be  so  and  so  ;  and  it  would  be  so  and  so,  as  a  matter  of 
course.' 

'  And  why  as  a  matter  of  course,  Mr.  Jlaldon  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Wickfield,  sedately 
eating  his  dinner. 

'  Why,  because  Annie  's  a  charming  young  girl,  and  the  old  Doctor — Doctor  Strong, 
I  mean — is  not  quite  a  charming  young  boy,'  said  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  laughing.  '  No 
offence  to  anybody,  Mr.  Wickfield.  I  only  mean  that  I  suppose  some  compensation 
is  fair  and  reasonable  in  that  sort  of  marriage.' 

'  Compensation  to  the  lady,  sir  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Wickfield  gravely. 

'  To  the  lady,  sir,'  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  answered,  laughing.  But  appearing  to 
remark  that  Mr.  Wickfield  went  on  with  his  dinner  in  the  same  sedate,  immoveable 
manner,  and  that  there  was  no  hope  of  making  him  relax  a  muscle  of  his  face,  he 
added — 

'  However,  I  have  said  what  I  came  back  to  say,  and,  with  another  apology  for 
this  intrusion,  I  may  take  myself  off.  Of  course  I  shall  observe  your  directions,  in 
considering  the  matter  as  one  to  be  arranged  between  you  and  me  solely,  and  not  to 
be  referred  to,  up  at  the  Doctor's.' 

'  Have  you  dined  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Wickfield,  with  a  motion  of  his  hand  towards  the 
table. 

'  Thank  'ee.  I  am  going  to  dine,'  said  Mr.  Maldon,  '  with  my  cousin  Annie. 
Good-bye  !  ' 

Mr.  Wickfield,  without  rising,  looked  after  him  thoughtfully  as  he  went  out. 
He  was  rather  a  shallow  sort  of  young  gentleman,  I  thought,  with  a  handsome  face, 
a  rapid  utterance,  and  a  confident  bold  air.  And  this  was  the  first  I  ever  saw  of  Mr. 
Jack  Maldon  ;  whom  I  had  not  expected  to  see  so  soon,  when  I  heard  the  Doctor 
speak  of  him  that  morning. 

When  we  had  dined,  we  went  upstairs  again,  where  everything  went  on  exactly 
as  on  the  previous  day.  Agnes  set  the  glasses  and  decanters  in  the  same  comer,  and 
Mr.  Wickfield  sat  down  to  drink,  and  drank  a  good  deal.  Agnes  played  the  piano  to  him, 
sat  by  him,  and  worked  and  talked,  and  played  some  games  at  dominoes  with  me.  In 
good  time  she  made  tea  ;  and  afterwards,  when  I  brought  down  my  books,  looked  into 
them,  and  showed  me  what  she  knew  of  them  (which  was  no  slight  matter,  though  she 
said  it  was),  and  what  was  the  best  way  to  learn  and  understand  them.  I  see  her, 
with  her  modest,  orderly,  placid  manner,  and  I  hear  her  beautiful  calm  voice,  as  I 
write  these  words.  The  influence  for  all  good,  which  she  came  to  exercise  over  me  at 
a  later  time,  begins  already  to  descend  upon  my  breast.  I  love  little  Em'ly,  and  I 
don't  love  Agnes — no,  not  at  all  in  that  way — but  I  feel  that  there  are  goodness,  peace, 


I  AM  A  NEW   liOY  IN  MOKE  SENSES  THAN  ONE      151 

and  truth,  wherever  Agnes  is  ;  and  that  the  soft  Hght  of  the  coloured  window  in  the 
church,  seen  lonf,'  ago,  falls  on  her  always,  and  on  me  when  I  am  near  her,  and  on 
everything  around. 

The  time  having  come  for  her  withdrawal  for  tlic  night,  and  she  having  left  us, 
I  gave  Mr.  VVicklicld  my  hand,  preparatory  to  going  away  myself.  Hut  he  ciicekcd 
me  and  said,  '  Should  you  like  to  stay  with  us,  Trotwood,  or  to  go  elsewhere  ?  ' 

'  To  stay,'  I  answered,  quickly. 

'  You  are  sure  ?  ' 

'  If  you  please.     If  I  may  !  ' 

'  Wliy,  it 's  but  a  dull  life  that  we  lead  here,  boy,  I  am  afraid,'  he  said. 

'  Not  more  dull  for  me  than  Agnes,  sir.     Not  dull  at  all  !  ' 

'  Than  Agnes,'  he  repeated,  walking  slowly  to  the  great  chimney-piece,  and 
leaning  against  it.     '  Than  Agnes  !  ' 

He  had  drank  wine  that  evening  (or  I  fancied  it),  until  his  eyes  were  bloodshot. 
Not  that  I  could  see  them  now,  for  they  were  cast  down,  and  shaded  by  his  hand  ; 
but  I  had  noticed  them  a  little  while  before. 

'  Now  I  wonder,'  he  muttered,  '  whether  my  Agnes  tires  of  me  ?  When  should 
I  ever  tire  of  her  ?     But  that 's  different,  that  s  quite  different.' 

He  was  musing,  not  speaking  to  me  ;    so  I  remained  quiet. 

'  A  dull  old  house,'  he  said,  '  and  a  monotonous  life  ;  but  I  must  have  her  near 
me.  1  must  keep  her  near  me.  If  the  thought  that  I  may  die  and  leave  my  darling, 
or  that  my  darling  may  die  and  leave  me,  comes  like  a  spectre,  to  distress  my  happiest 
hours,  and  is  only  to  be  drowned  in ' 

He  did  not  supply  the  word  ;  but  pacing  slowly  to  the  place  where  he  had  sat, 
and  mechanically  going  through  the  action  of  pouring  wine  from  the  empty  decanter, 
set  it  down  and  paced  back  again. 

'  If  it  is  miserable  to  bear  when  she  is  here,'  he  said,  '  what  would  it  be,  and  she 
away  ?     No,  no,  no.     I  cannot  try  that.' 

He  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece,  brooding  so  long  that  I  could  not  decide 
whether  to  run  the  risk  of  disturbing  him  by  going,  or  to  remain  quietly  where  I 
was,  until  he  should  come  out  of  his  reverie.  At  length  he  aroused  himself,  and  looked 
about  the  room  until  his  eyes  encountered  mine. 

'  Stay  with  us,  Trotwood,  eh  ?  '  he  said  in  his  usual  manner,  and  as  if  he  were 
answering  something  I  had  just  said.  '  I  am  glad  of  it.  You  are  company  to  us  both. 
It  is  wholesome  to  have  you  here.  \Vliolesome  for  me,  wholesome  for  Agnes,  whole- 
some perhaps  for  all  of  us.' 

'  I  am  sure  it  is  for  me,  sir,'  I  said.     '  I  am  so  glad  to  be  here.' 

'  That  's  a  fine  fellow  !  '  said  Mr.  Wiekfield.  '  As  long  as  you  are  glad  to  be 
here,  you  shall  stay  here.'  He  shook  hands  with  me  upon  it,  and  c-lapped  me  on 
the  back  ;  and  told  me  that  when  I  had  anything  to  do  at  night  after  Agnes  had 
left  us,  or  when  I  wished  to  read  for  my  own  pleasure,  I  was  free  to  come  down  to  his 
room,  if  he  were  there,  and  if  I  desired  it  for  company's  sake,  and  to  sit  with  him. 
I  thanked  him  for  his  consideration  ;  and,  as  he  went  down  soon  afterwards,  and 
I  was  not  tired,  went  down  too,  with  a  book  in  my  hand,  to  avail  myself,  for  half 
an  hour,  of  his  permission. 

But,  seeing  a  light  in  the  little  round  office,  and  immediately  feeling  myself 
attracted  towards  Uriah  Heep,  who  had  a  sort  of  fascination  for  me,  I  went  in  there 
instead.     I  found  Uriah  reading  a  great  fat  book,  with  such  demonstrative  attention, 


152  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

that  his  lank  fore-finger  followed  up  every  line  as  he  read,  and  made  clammy  tracks 
along  the  page  (or  so  I  fully  believed)  like  a  snail. 

'  You  are  working  late  to-night,  Uriah,'  says  I. 

'  Yes,  Master  Copperfield,'  says  Uriah. 

As  I  was  getting  oii  the  stool  opposite,  to  talk  to  him  more  conveniently,  I 
observed  that  he  had  not  such  a  thing  as  a  smile  about  him,  and  that  he  could  only 
widen  his  mouth  and  make  two  hard  creases  down  his  cheeks,  one  on  each  side,  to 
stand  for  one. 

'  I  am  not  doing  office-work.  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah. 

'  What  work,  then  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  I  am  improving  my  legal  knowledge.  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah.  '  I  am 
going  through  Tidd's  Practice.     Oh,  what  a  writer  Mr.  Tidd  is.  Master  Copperfield  !  ' 

My  stool  was  such  a  tower  of  observation,  that  as  I  watched  him  reading  on  again, 
after  this  rapturous  exclamation,  and  following  up  the  lines  with  his  fore-finger,  I 
observed  that  his  nostrils,  which  were  thin  and  pointed,  with  sharp  dints  in  them, 
had  a  singular  and  most  uncomfortable  way  of  expanding  and  contracting  themselves  ; 
that  they  seemed  to  twinkle  instead  of  his  eyes,  which  hardly  ever  twinkled  at  all. 

'  I  suppose  you  are  quite  a  great  lawyer  ?  '  I  said,  after  looking  at  him  for  some 
time. 

'  Me,  Master  Copperfield  ?  '  said  Uriah.     '  Oh,  no  !     I  'm  a  very  umble  person.' 

It  was  no  fancy  of  mine  about  his  hands,  I  observed  ;  for  he  frequently  ground 
the  palms  against  each  other  as  if  to  squeeze  them  dry  and  warm,  besides  often  wiping 
them,  in  a  stealthy  way,  on  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

'  I  am  well  aware  that  I  am  the  umblest  person  going,'  said  Uriah  Heep,  modestly  ; 
'  let  the  other  be  where  he  may.  My  mother  is  likewise  a  very  umble  person.  We 
live  in  a  numble  abode,  IMaster  Copperfield,  but  have  much  to  be  thankful  for.  My 
father's  former  calling  was  umble.     He  was  a  sexton.' 

'  What  is  he  now  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  He  is  a  partaker  of  glory  at  present.  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah  Heep. 
'  But  we  have  much  to  be  thankful  for.  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful  for  in  hving 
with  Mr.  Wickfield  !  ' 

I  asked  Uriah  if  he  had  been  with  Mr.  Wickfield  long  ? 

'  I  have  been  with  him  going  on  four  year.  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah  ; 
shutting  up  his  book,  after  carefully  marking  the  place  where  he  had  left  off.  '  Since 
a  year  after  my  father's  death.  How  much  have  I  to  be  thankful  for,  in  that !  How 
much  have  I  to  be  thankful  for,  in  Mr.  Wickfield's  kind  intention  to  give  me  my 
articles,  which  would  otherwise  not  lay  within  the  umble  means  of  mother  and  self  !  ' 

'  Then,  when  your  articled  time  is  over,  you  '11  be  a  regular  lawyer,  I  suppose  '?  ' 
said  I. 

'  With  the  blessing  of  Providence,  Master  Copperfield,'  returned  Uriah. 

'  Perhaps  you  '11  be  a  partner  in  Mr.  Wickfield's  business,  one  of  these  days,' 
I  said,  to  make  myself  agreeable  ;  '  and  it  will  be  Wickfield  and  Heep,  or  Heep  late 
Wickfield.' 

'  Oh  no.  Master  Copperfield,'  returned  Uriah,  shaking  his  head,  '  I  am  much  too 
umble  for  that  !  ' 

He  certainly  did  look  uncommonly  like  the  carved  face  on  the  beam  outside  my 
window,  as  he  sat,  in  his  humility,  eyeing  me  sideways,  with  his  mouth  widened,  and 
the  creases  in  his  cheeks. 


I  AM  A  NEW  BOY  IN  MORE  SENSES  THAN  ONE     1.53 

'  Mr.  Wickfield  is  a  most  excellent  man,  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah.  '  If 
you  have  known  him  long,  you  know  it,  I  am  sure,  much  better  than  I  can  infonn 
you.' 

I  replied  that  I  was  certain  he  was  ;  but  that  I  had  not  known  him  long  myself, 
though  he  was  a  friend  of  my  auat's. 

'  Oh,  indeed,  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah.  '  Your  aunt  is  a  sweet  lady. 
Master  Copperfield  !  ' 

He  had  a  way  of  writhing  when  he  wanted  to  express  enthusiasm,  which  was 
very  ugly ;  and  which  diverted  my  attention  from  the  compliment  he  had  paid  my 
relation,  to  the  snaky  twistings  of  his  throat  and  body. 

'  A  sweet  lady.  Master  Copperfield  !  '  said  Uriah  Heep.  '  She  has  a  great  admira- 
tion for  Miss  Agnes,  Master  Copperfield,  I  believe  ?  ' 

I  said,  '  Yes,'  boldly  ;    not  that  I  knew  anything  about  it.  Heaven  forgive  me  ! 

'  I  hope  you  have,  too,  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah.  '  But  I  am  sure  you 
must  have.' 

'  Everybody  must  have,'  I  returned. 

'  Oh,  thank  you,  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah  Heep,  '  for  that  remark  !  It  is 
so  true  !     Umble  as  I  am,  I  know  it  is  so  true  !     Oh,  thank  you.  Master  Copperfield  !  ' 

He  writhed  himself  quite  off  his  stool  in  the  excitement  of  his  feelings,  and,  being 
off,  began  to  make  arrangements  for  going  home. 

'  Mother  will  be  expecting  me,'  he  said,  referring  to  a  pale,  inexpressive-faced 
watch  in  his  pocket,  '  and  getting  uneasy  ;  for  though  we  are  very  umble.  Master 
Copperfield,  we  are  much  attached  to  one  another.  If  you  would  come  and  see  us, 
any  afternoon,  and  take  a  cup  of  tea  at  our  lowly  dwelling,  mother  would  be  as  proud 
of  your  company  as  I  should  be.' 

I  said  I  should  be  glad  to  come. 

'  Thank  you.  Master  Copperfield,'  returned  Uriah,  putting  his  book  away  upon 
the  shelf.     '  I  suppose  you  stop  here,  some  time.  Master  Copperfield  ?  ' 

I  said  I  was  going  to  be  brought  up  there,  I  believed,  as  long  as  I  remained  at 
school. 

'  Oh,  indeed  !  '  exclaimed  Uriah.  '  I  should  think  you  would  come  into  the 
business  at  last.  Master  Copperfield  !  ' 

I  protested  that  I  had  no  views  of  that  sort,  and  that  no  such  scheme  was  enter- 
tained in  my  behalf  by  anybody  ;  but  Uriah  insisted  on  blandly  replying  to  all  my 
assurances,  '  Oh,  yes.  Master  Copperfield,  I  should  think  you  would,  indeed  !  '  and, 
'  Oh,  indeed.  Master  Copperfield,  I  should  think  you  would,  certainly  !  '  over  and  over 
again.  Being,  at  last,  ready  to  leave  the  office  for  the  night,  he  asked  me  if  it  would 
suit  my  convenience  to  have  the  light  put  out ;  and  on  my  answering  '  Yes,'  instantly 
extinguished  it.  After  shaking  hands  with  me — his  hand  felt  like  a  fish,  in  the  dark — 
he  opened  the  door  into  the  street  a  very  little,  and  crept  out,  and  shut  it,  leaving  me 
to  grope  my  way  back  into  the  house  :  which  cost  me  some  trouble  and  a  fall  over  his 
stool.  This  was  the  proximate  cause,  I  suppose,  of  my  dreaming  about  him,  for 
what  appeared  to  me  to  be  half  the  night ;  and  dreaming,  among  other  things,  that  he 
had  launched  Mr.  Peggotty's  house  on  a  piratical  expedition,  with  a  black  flag  at  the 
mast-head,  bearing  the  inscription,  '  Tidd's  Practice,'  under  which  diabolical  ensign 
he'was  carrying  me  and  little  Em'ly  to  the  Spanish  Main,  to  be  drowned. 

I  got  a  little  better  of  my  uneasiness  when  I  went  to  school  next  day,  and  a  good 
deal  the  better  next  day,  and  so  shook  it  off  by  degrees,  that  in  less  than  a  fortnight 


154  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

I  was  quite  at  home,  and  happy,  among  my  new  companions.  I  was  awkward  enough 
in  their  games,  and  backward  enough  in  their  studies  ;  but  custom  would  improve 
me  in  the  first  respect,  I  hoped,  and  hard  work  in  the  second.  Accordingly,  I  went 
to  work  very  hard,  both  in  play  and  in  earnest,  and  gained  great  commendation. 
And,  in  a  very  little  while,  the  Murdstone  and  Grinby  life  became  so  strange  to  me 
that  I  hardly  believed  in  it,  while  my  present  life  grew  so  familiar  that  I  seemed  to 
have  been  leading  it  a  long  time. 

Doctor  Strong's  was  an  excellent  school ;  as  different  from  Mr.  Creakle's  as  good 
is  from  evil.  It  was  very  gravely  and  decorously  ordered,  and  on  a  sound  system  ; 
with  an  appeal,  in  ever>i;hing,  to  the  honour  and  good  faith  of  the  boys,  and  an  avowed 
intention  to  rely  on  their  possession  of  those  qualities  unless  they  proved  themselves 
unworthy  of  it,  which  worked  wonders.  We  all  felt  that  we  had  a  part  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  place,  and  in  sustaining  its  character  and  dignity.  Hence,  we  soon 
became  warmly  attached  to  it — I  am  sure  I  did  for  one,  and  I  never  knew,  in  all  my 
time,  of  any  other  boy  being  otherwise— and  learnt  with  a  good  will,  desiring  to  do  it 
credit.  We  had  noble  games  out  of  hours,  and  plenty  of  liberty  ;  but  even  then,  as 
I  remember,  we  were  well  spoken  of  in  the  town,  and  rarely  did  any  disgrace,  by  our 
appearance  or  manner,  to  the  reputation  of  Doctor  Strong  and  Doctor  Strong's 
boys. 

Some  of  the  higher  scholars  boarded  in  the  Doctor's  house,  and  through  them 
I  learned,  at  second  hand,  some  particulars  of  the  Doctor's  history.  As,  how  he  had 
not  yet  been  married  twelve  months  to  the  beautiful  young  lady  I  had  seen  in  the 
study,  whom  he  had  married  for  love  ;  for  she  had  not  a  sixpence,  and  had  a  world  of 
poor  relations  (so  our  fellows  said)  ready  to  swarm  the  Doctor  out  of  house  and  home. 
Also,  how  the  Doctor's  cogitating  manner  was  attributable  to  his  being  always  engaged 
in  looking  out  for  Greek  roots  ;  which,  in  my  innocence  and  ignorance,  I  supposed  to 
be  a  botanical  furore  on  the  Doctor's  part,  especially  as  he  always  looked  at  the  ground 
when  he  walked  about,  until  I  understood  that  they  were  roots  of  words,  with  a  view 
to  a  new  Dictionary  which  he  had  in  contemplation.  Adams  our  head-boy,  who  had 
a  turn  for  mathematics,  had  made  a  calculation,  I  was  informed,  of  the  time  this 
Dictionary  would  take  in  completing,  on  the  Doctor's  plan,  and  at  the  Doctor's  rate 
of  going.  He  considered  that  it  might  be  done  in  one  thousand  six  hundred  and 
forty-nine  years,  counting  from  the  Doctor's  last,  or  sixty-second,  birthday. 

But  the  Doctor  himself  was  the  idol  of  the  whole  school ;  and  it  must  have  been  a 
badly-composed  school  if  he  had  been  anything  else,  for  he  was  the  kindest  of  men  ; 
with  a  simple  faith  in  him  that  might  have  touched  the  stone  hearts  of  the  very  urns 
upon  the  wall.  As  he  walked  up  and  down  that  part  of  the  courtyard  which  was  at 
the  side  of  the  house,  with  the  stray  rooks  and  jackdaws  looking  after  him  with  their 
heads  cocked  slyly,  as  if  they  knew  how  much  more  knoAving  they  were  in  worldly 
affairs  than  he,  if  any  sort  of  vagabond  could  only  get  near  enough  to  his  creaking 
shoes  to  attract  his  attention  to  one  sentence  of  a  tale  of  distress,  that  vagabond  was 
made  for  the  next  two  days.  It  was  so  notorious  in  the  house,  that  the  masters  and 
head-boys  took  pains  to  cut  these  marauders  off  at  angles,  and  to  get  out  of  windows, 
and  turn  them  out  of  the  courtyard,  before  they  could  make  the  Doctor  aware  of 
their  presence  ;  which  was  sometimes  happily  effected  within  a  few  yards  of  him, 
without  his  knowing  anything  of  the  matter,  as  he  jogged  to  and  fro.  Outside  his 
own  domain,  and  unprotected,  he  was  a  very  sheep  for  the  shearers.  He  would  have 
taken  his  gaiters  off  his  legs  to  give  away.       In  fact,  there  was  a  story  current  among 


I  AM  A  NEW   BOY  IN   MORK  SENSES  THAN  ONE      ir,5 

us  (I  have  no  idea,  aiul  never  had,  on  what  authority,  but  I  have  bcUeved  it  for  so 
many  years  that  I  feel  quite  certain  it  is  true),  that  on  a  frosty  day,  one  winter-time, 
he  actually  did  bestow  liis  f,'aitcrs  on  a  bcgj^ar-woman,  who  occasioned  some  scandal 
in  the  neif^hbourhood  by  cxhibitirij^  a  fine  infant  from  door  to  door,  wrapped  in  those 
garments,  which  were  universally  recognised,  being  as  well  known  in  the  vicinity  as 
the  cathedral.  The  legend  added  that  the  only  person  who  did  not  identify  them 
was  the  Doctor  himself,  who,  when  they  were  shortly  afterwards  displayed  at  the  door 
of  a  little  second-hand  shop  of  no  very  good  repute,  where  such  things  were  taken  in 
exchange  for  gin,  was  more  than  once  observed  to  handle  them  approvingly,  as  if 
admiring  some  curious  novelty  in  the  pattern,  and  considering  them  an  improvement 
on  his  own. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  see  the  Doctor  with  his  pretty  young  wife.  He  had  a 
fatherly,  benignant  way  of  showing  his  fondness  for  her,  which  seemed  in  itself  to 
express  a  good  man.  I  often  saw  them  walking  in  the  garden  where  the  peaches  were, 
and  I  sometimes  had  a  nearer  observation  of  them  in  the  study  or  the  parlour.  She 
appeared  to  me  to  take  great  care  of  the  Doctor,  and  to  like  him  very  much,  though 
I  never  thought  her  vitally  interested  in  the  Dictionary  :  some  cumbrous  fragments 
of  which  work  the  Doctor  always  carried  in  his  pockets,  and  in  the  lining  of  his  hat, 
and  generally  seemed  to  be  expounding  to  her  as  they  walked  about. 

I  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mrs.  Strong,  both  because  she  had  taken  a  liking  for  me  on 
the  moniiing  of  my  introduction  to  the  Doctor,  and  was  always  afterwards  kind  to  me, 
and  interested  in  me  ;  and  because  she  was  very  fond  of  Agnes,  and  was  often  back- 
wards and  forvvards  at  our  house.  There  was  a  curious  constraint  between  her  and 
Mr.  Wickfield,  I  thought  (of  whom  she  seemed  to  be  afraid),  that  never  wore  off. 
When  she  came  there  of  an  evening,  she  always  shrunk  ffom  accepting  his  escort  home, 
and  ran  away  with  me  instead.  And  sometimes,  as  we  were  nmning  gaily  across  the 
cathedral-yard  together,  expecting  to  meet  nobody,  we  would  meet  Mr.  Jack  Maldon, 
who  was  always  surprised  to  see  us. 

Mrs.  Strong's  mamma  was  a  lady  I  took  great  delight  in.  Iler  name  was  Mrs. 
Markleham  ;  but  our  boys  used  to  call  her  the  Old  Soldier,  on  account  of  her  general- 
ship, and  the  skill  with  which  she  marshalled  great  forces  of  relations  against  the 
Doctor.  She  was  a  little,  sharp-eyed  woman,  who  used  to  wear,  when  she  was  dressed, 
one  unchangeable  cap,  ornamented  with  some  artificial  flowers,  and  two  artificial 
butterflies  supposed  to  be  hovering  above  the  flowers.  There  was  a  superstition 
among  us  that  this  cap  had  come  from  France,  and  could  only  originate  in  the  work- 
manship of  that  ingenious  nation  :  but  all  I  certainly  know  about  it  is,  that  it  always 
made  its  appearance  of  an  evening,  wheresoever  Mrs.  Markleham  made  her  appear- 
ance ;  that  it  was  carried  about  to  friendly  meetings  in  a  Hindoo  basket  ;  that  the 
butterflies  had  the  gift  of  trembling  constantly  ;  and  that  they  improved  the  shining 
hours  at  Doctor  Strong's  expense,  like  busy  bees. 

I  observed  the  Old  Soldier — not  to  adopt  the  name  disrespectfully — to  pretty 
good  advantage,  on  a  night  which  is  made  memorable  to  me  by  something  else  I  shall 
relate.  It  was  the  night  of  a  little  party  at  the  Doctor's,  which  was  given  on  the 
occasion  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon's  departure  for  India,  whither  he  was  going  as  a  cadet, 
or  something  of  that  kind  :  Mr.  Wickfield  having  at  length  arranged  the  business. 
It  happened  to  be  the  Doctor's  birthday,  too.  We  had  had  a  holiday,  had  made 
presents  to  him  in  the  morning,  had  made  a  speech  to  him  through  the  head-boy, 
and  had  cheered  him  until  we  were  hoarse,  and  until  he  had  shed  tears.     And  now,  in 


156  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

the  evening,  Mr.  Wickfield,  Agnes,  and  I,  went  to  have  tea  with  him  in  his  private 
capacity. 

Mr.  Jack  Maldon  was  there,  before  us.  Mrs.  Strong,  dressed  in  white,  with  cherry- 
coloured  ribbons,  was  playing  the  piano,  when  we  went  in  ;  and  he  was  leaning  over 
her  to  turn  the  leaves.  The  clear  red  and  white  of  her  complexion  was  not  so  bloom- 
ing and  fiower-like  as  usual,  I  thought,  when  she  turned  round  ;  but  she  looked  very 
pretty,  wonderfully  pretty. 

'  I  have  forgotten.  Doctor,'  said  Mrs.  Strong's  mamma,  when  we  were  seated, 
'  to  pay  you  the  compliments  of  the  day  :  though  they  are,  as  you  may  suppose, 
very  far  from  being  mere  compliments  in  my  case.  Allow  me  to  wish  you  many  happy 
returns.' 

'  I  thank  you,  ma'am,'  replied  the  Doctor. 

'  Many,  many,  many,  happy  returns,'  said  the  Old  Soldier.  '  Not  only  for  your 
own  sake,  but  for  Annie's  and  John  Maldon's,  and  many  other  people's.  It  seems  but 
yesterday  to  me,  John,  when  you  were  a  little  creature,  a  head  shorter  than  Master 
Copperfield,  making  baby  love  to  Annie  behind  the  gooseberry  bushes  in  the  back- 
garden.' 

'  My  dear  mamma,'  said  Mrs.  Strong,  '  never  mind  that  now.' 

'  Annie,  don't  be  absurd,'  returned  her  mother.  '  If  you  are  to  blush  to  hear  of 
such  things,  now  you  are  an  old  married  woman,  when  are  you  not  to  blush  to  hear  of 
them  ?  ' 

'  Old  ?  '  exclaimed  Mr.  Jack  Maldon.     '  Annie  ?     Come  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  John,'  returned  the  Soldier.  '  Virtually,  an  old  married  woman.  Although 
not  old  by  years — for  when  did  you  ever  hear  me  say,  or  who  has  ever  heard  me  say, 
that  a  girl  of  twenty  was  old  by  years  ! — your  cousin  is  the  wife  of  the  Doctor,  and,  as 
such,  what  I  have  described  her.  It  is  well  for  you,  John,  that  your  cousin  is  the 
wife  of  the  Doctor.  You  have  found  in  him  an  influential  and  kind  friend,  who  will  be 
kinder  yet,  I  venture  to  predict,  if  you  deserve  it.  I  have  no  false  pride.  I  never 
hesitate  to  admit,  frankly,  that  there  are  some  members  of  our  family  who  want  a 
friend.     You  were  one  yourself,  before  your  cousin's  influence  raised  up  one  for  you.' 

The  Doctor,  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  waved  his  hand  as  if  to  make  light  of 
it,  and  save  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  from  any  further  reminder.  But  Mrs.  Markleham  changed 
her  chair  for  one  next  the  Doctor's,  and  putting  her  fan  on  his  coat-sleeve  said — 

'  No,  really,  my  dear  Doctor,  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  appear  to  dwell  on  this 
rather,  because  I  feel  so  verj'  strongly.  I  call  it  quite  my  monomania,  it  is  such  a 
subject  of  mine.     You  are  a  blessing  to  us.     You  really  are  a  boon,  you  know.' 

'  Nonsense,  nonsense,'  said  the  Doctor. 

'  No,  no,  I  beg  your  pardon,'  retorted  the  Old  Soldier.  '  With  nobody  present, 
but  our  dear  and  confidential  friend  Mr.  Wickfield,  I  cannot  consent  to  be  put  down. 
I  shall  begin  to  assert  the  privileges  of  a  mother-in-law,  if  you  go  on  like  that,  and 
scold  you.  I  am  perfectly  honest  and  outspoken.  What  I  am  saying,  is  what  I  said 
when  you  first  overpowered  me  with  surprise — you  remember  how  surprised  I  was  ? — 
by  proposing  for  Annie.  Not  that  there  was  anything  so  very  much  out  of  the  way, 
in  the  mere  fact  of  the  proposal — it  would  be  ridiculous  to  say  that ! — but  because, 
you  having  known  her  poor  father,  and  having  known  her  from  a  baby  six  months  old, 
I  hadn't  thought  of  you  in  such  a  light  at  all,  or  indeed  as  a  marrying  man  in  any 
way — simply  that,  you  know.' 

'  Aye,  aye,'  returned  the  Doctor,  good-humouredly.     '  Never  mind.' 


I  AM  A  NEW  150Y  IN   MORE  SENSES  THAN  ONE     157 

'  But  I  do  mind,'  said  the  Old  Soldier,  laying  her  fan  upon  his  lips.  '  I  mind 
very  much.  I  recall  these  things  tliat  I  may  be  contradicted  if  I  am  wrong.  Well  ! 
Then  I  spoke  to  Annie,  and  I  told  her  what  had  happened.  I  said,  "  My  dear,  here  's 
Doctor  Strong  has  positively  been  and  made  you  the  subject  of  a  handsome  declaration 
and  an  offer."  Did  I  press  it  in  the  least  ?  No.  I  said,  "  Now,  Annie,  tell  me  the 
truth  this  moment ;  is  your  heart  free  ?  "  "  Mamma,"  she  said,  crying,  "  I  am 
extremely  young  " — which  was  perfectly  true — "  and  I  hardly  know  if  I  have  a  heart 
at  all."  "  Then,  my  dear,"  I  said,  "  you  may  rely  upon  it,  it 's  free.  At  all  events, 
my  love,"  said  I,  "  Doctor  Strong  is  in  an  agitated  state  of  mind,  and  must  be  answered. 
He  cannot  be  kept  in  his  present  state  of  suspense."  "  Mamma,"  said  Annie,  still 
crying,  "  would  he  be  unhappy  without  me  ?  If  he  would,  I  honour  and  respect  him 
so  much,  that  I  think  I  will  have  him."  So  it  was  settled.  And  then,  and  not  till 
then,  I  said  to  Annie,  "  Annie,  Doctor  Strong  will  not  only  be  your  husband,  but  he 
will  represent  your  late  father  :  he  will  represent  the  head  of  our  family,  he  will  repre- 
sent the  wisdom  and  station,  and  I  may  say  the  means,  of  our  family  ;  and  will  be,  in 
short,  a  boon  to  it."  I  used  the  word  at  the  time,  and  I  have  used  it  again  to-day. 
If  I  have  any  merit  it  is  consistency.' 

The  daughter  had  sat  quite  silent  and  still  during  this  speech,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground  ;  her  cousin  standing  near  her,  and  looking  on  the  ground,  too.  She 
now  said  very  softly,  in  a  trembling  voice — 

'  Mamma,  I  hope  you  have  finished  ?  ' 

'  No,  my  dear  Annie,'  returned  the  Soldier,  '  I  have  not  quite  finished.  Since  you 
ask  me,  my  love,  I  reply  that  I  have  not.  I  complain  that  you  really  are  a  little  un- 
natural towards  your  own  family  ;  and,  as  it  is  of  no  use  complaining  to  you,  I  mean 
to  complain  to  your  husband.  Now,  my  dear  Doctor,  do  look  at  that  silly  wife  of 
yours.' 

As  the  Doctor  turned  his  kind  face,  with  its  smile  of  simplicity  and  gentleness, 
towards  her,  she  drooped  her  head  more.  I  noticed  that  Mr.  Wickfield  looked  at  her 
steadily. 

'  When  I  happened  to  say  to  that  naughty  thing  the  other  day,'  pursued  her 
mother,  shaking  her  head  and  her  fan  at  her  playfully,  '  that  there  was  a  family  circiun- 
stance  she  might  mention  to  you — indeed,  I  think,  was  bound  to  mention — she  said, 
that  to  mention  it  was  to  ask  a  favour  ;  and  that,  as  you  were  too  generous,  and  as  for 
her  to  ask  was  always  to  have,  she  wouldn't.' 

'  Annie,  my  dear,'  said  the  Doctor.  '  That  was  wrong.  It  robbed  me  of  a 
pleasure.' 

'  Almost  the  very  words  I  said  to  her  !  '  exclaimed  her  mother.  '  Now  reaUy, 
another  time,  when  I  know  what  she  would  tell  you  but  for  this  reason,  and  won't, 
I  have  a  great  mind,  my  dear  Doctor,  to  tell  you  myself.' 

'  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will,'  returned  the  Doctor. 

'  Shall  I  ?  ' 

'  Certainly.' 

'  Well,  then,  I  will !  '  said  the  Old  Soldier.  '  That 's  a  bargain.'  And  having, 
I  suppose,  carried  her  point,  she  tapped  the  Doctor's  hand  several  times  with  her  fan 
(which  she  kissed  first),  and  returned  triumphantly  to  her  former  station. 

Some  more  company  coming  in,  among  whom  were  the  two  masters  and  Adams, 
the  talk  became  general ;  and  it  naturally  turned  on  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  and  his  voyage, 
and  the  country  he  was  going  to,  and  his  various  plans  and  prospects.     He  was  to 


158  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

leave  that  night,  after  supper,  in  a  post-chaise,  for  Gravesend  ;  where  the  ship,  in 
which  he  was  to  make  the  voyage,  lay  ;  and  was  to  be  gone — unless  he  came  home  on 
leave,  or  for  his  health — I  don't  know  how  many  years.  I  recollect  it  was  settled  by 
general  consent  that  India  was  quite  a  misrepresented  country,  and  had  nothing 
objectionable  in  it,  but  a  tiger  or  two,  and  a  little  heat  in  the  warm  part  of  the  day. 
For  my  own  part,  I  looked  on  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  as  a  modem  Sinbad,  and  pictured 
him  the  bosom  friend  of  all  the  Rajahs  in  the  East,  sitting  under  canopies,  smoking 
curly  golden  pipes — a  mile  long,  if  they  could  be  straightened  out. 

Mrs.  Strong  was  a  very  pretty  singer  :  as  I  knew,  who  often  heard  her  singing 
by  herself.  But,  whether  she  was  afraid  of  singing  before  people,  or  was  out  of  voice 
that  evening,  it  was  certain  that  she  couldn't  sing  at  all.  She  tried  a  duet,  once,  with 
her  cousin  Maldon,  but  could  not  do  so  much  as  begin  ;  and  aftenvards,  when  she 
tried  to  sing  by  herself,  although  she  began  sweetly,  her  voice  died  away  on  a  sudden, 
and  left  her  quite  distressed,  with  her  head  hanging  down  over  the  keys.  The  good 
Doctor  said  she  was  nervous,  and,  to  relieve  her,  proposed  a  round  game  at  cards  ; 
of  which  he  knew  as  much  as  of  the  art  of  playing  the  trombone.  But  I  remarked 
that  the  Old  Soldier  took  him  into  custody  directly,  for  her  partner  ;  and  instructed 
him,  as  the  first  preliminary  of  initiation,  to  give  her  all  the  silver  he  had  in  his  pocket. 

We  had  a  merry  game,  not  made  the  less  merry  by  the  Doctor's  mistakes,  of  which 
he  committed  an  innumerable  quantity,  in  spite  of  the  watchfulness  of  the  butterflies, 
and  to  their  great  aggravation.  Mrs.  Strong  had  declined  to  play,  on  the  ground 
of  not  feeling  very  well ;  and  her  cousin  Maldon  had  excused  himself  because  he  had 
some  packing  to  do.  When  he  had  done  it,  however,  he  returned,  and  they  sat  together, 
talking,  on  the  sofa.  From  time  to  time  she  came  and  looked  over  the  Doctor's  hand, 
and  told  him  what  to  play.  She  was  very  pale,  as  she  bent  over  him,  and  I  thought 
her  finger  trembled  as  she  pointed  out  the  cards  ;  but  the  Doctor  was  quite  happy  in 
her  attention,  and  took  no  notice  of  this,  if  it  were  so. 

At  supper,  we  were  hardly  so  gay.  Every  one  appeared  to  feel  that  a  parting 
of  that  sort  was  an  awkward  thing,  and  that  the  nearer  it  approached,  the  more  awk- 
ward it  was.  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  tried  to  be  very  talkative,  but  was  not  at  his  ease,  and 
made  matters  worse.  And  they  were  not  improved,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  by  the 
Old  Soldier  :   who  continually  recalled  passages  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon's  youth. 

The  Doctor,  however,  who  felt,  I  am  sure,  that  he  was  making  everybody  happy, 
was  well  pleased,  and  had  no  suspicion  but  that  we  were  all  at  the  utmost  height  of 
enjoyment. 

'  Annie,  my  dear,'  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch,  and  filling  his  glass,  '  it  is  past 
your  cousin  Jack's  time,  and  we  must  not  detain  him,  since  time  and  tide — both  con- 
cerned in  this  case — wait  for  no  man.  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  you  have  a  long  voyage,  and 
a  strange  country,  before  you  ;  but  many  men  have  had  both,  and  many  men  will 
have  both,  to  the  end  of  time.  The  winds  you  are  going  to  tempt,  have  wafted  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  to  fortune,  and  brought  thousands  upon  thousands  happily 
back.' 

'  It 's  an  affecting  thing,'  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  '  however  it 's  viewed,  it 's  affect- 
ing, to  see  a  fine  young  man  one  has  known  from  an  infant,  going  away  to  the  other 
end  of  the  world,  leaving  all  he  knows  behind,  and  not  knowing  what 's  before  him. 
A  young  man  really  well  deserves  constant  support  and  patronage,'  looking  at  the 
Doctor,  '  who  makes  such  sacrifices.' 

'  Time  will  go  fast  with  you,  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,'  pursued  the  Doctor,  '  and  fast 


I  AM  A  NEW   BOY  IN  MORK  SENSES  TJIAN  ONE      159 

with  all  of  us.  Some  of  us  can  hardly  expect,  perhaps,  in  the  natural  course  of  thi;igs, 
to  greet  you  on  your  return.  The  next  best  thing  is  to  hope  to  do  it,  and  that 's  my 
case.  I  shall  not  weary  you  with  good  advice.  You  have  long  had  a  good  model 
before  you,  in  your  cousin  Annie.     Imitate  her  virtues  as  nearly  as  you  can.' 

Mrs.  Markleham  fiuuicd  herself,  and  shook  her  head. 

'  Farewell,  Mr.  Jack,'  said  the  Doctor,  standing  up  ;  on  which  we  all  stood  up, 
'  A  prosperous  voyage  out,  a  thriving  career  abroad,  and  a  h:ii)py  rffiirn  home  !  ' 

We  all  drank  the  toast,  and  all  shook  hands  with  Mr.  .Jack  Maldon  ;  after  which 
he  hastily  took  leave  of  the  ladies  who  were  there,  and  hurried  to  the  door,  where  he 
was  received,  as  he  got  into  the  chaise,  with  a  tremendous  broadside  of  ciieers  discharged 
by  our  boys,  who  had  assembled  on  the  lawn  for  the  purpose.  Running  in  among  them 
to  swell  the  ranks,  I  was  very  near  the  chaise  when  it  rolled  away  ;  and  I  had  a  lively 
impression  made  upon  me,  in  the  midst  of  the  noise  and  dust,  of  having  seen  Mr.  Jack 
Maldon  rattle  past  with  an  agitated  face,  and  something  cherry-coloured  in  his  hand. 

After  another  broadside  for  the  Doctor,  and  another  for  the  Doctor's  wife,  the  boys 
dispersed,  and  I  went  back  into  the  house,  where  I  found  the  guests  all  standing  in  a 
group  about  the  Doctor,  discussing  how  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  had  gone  away,  and  how 
he  had  bonie  it,  and  how  he  had  felt  it,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  In  the  midst  of  these 
remarks,  Mrs.  Markleham  cried  :   '  Where  's  Annie  ?  ' 

No  Annie  was  there  ;  and  when  they  called  to  her,  no  Annie  replied.  But  all 
pressing  out  of  the  room,  in  a  crowd,  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  we  found  her  lying 
on  the  hall  floor.  There  was  great  alarm  at  first,  until  it  was  found  that  she  was  in  a 
swoon,  and  that  the  swoon  was  yielding  to  the  usual  means  of  recovery  ;  when  the 
Doctor,  who  had  lifted  her  head  upon  his  knee,  put  her  curls  aside  with  his  hand,  and 
said,  looking  around — 

'  Poor  Annie  !  She  's  so  faithful  and  tender-hearted  !  It 's  the  parting  from 
her  old  playfellow  and  friend,  her  favourite  cousin,  that  has  done  this.  Ah  !  It 's  a 
pity  !     I  am  very  sorry  !  ' 

When  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  where  she  was,  and  that  we  were  all  standing 
about  her,  she  arose  with  assistance  :  turning  her  head,  as  she  did  so,  to  lay  it  on  the 
Doctor's  shoulder — or  to  hide  it,  I  don't  know  which.  We  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  to  leave  her  with  the  Doctor  and  her  mother  ;  but  she  said,  it  seemed,  that  she 
was  better  than  she  had  been  since  morning,  and  that  she  would  rather  be  brought 
among  us  ;  so  they  brought  her  in,  looking  very  white  and  weak,  I  thought,  and  sat 
her  on  a  sofa. 

'  Annie,  my  dear,'  said  her  mother,  doing  something  to  her  dress.  '  See  here  ! 
You  have  lost  a  bow.  Will  anybody  be  so  good  as  find  a  ribbon  ;  a  cherry-coloured 
ribbon  ?  ' 

It  was  the  one  she  had  worn  at  her  bosom.  We  all  looked  for  it ;  I  myself  looked 
everywhere,  I  am  certain  ;   but  nobody  could  find  it. 

'  Do  you  recollect  where  you  had  it  last,  Annie  ?  '  said  her  mother. 

I  wondered  how  I  could  have  thought  she  looked  white,  or  anything  but  burning 
red,  when  she  answered  that  she  had  had  it  safe,  a  little  while  ago,  she  thought,  but  it 
was  not  worth  looking  for. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  looked  for  again,  and  still  not  found.  She  entreated  that 
there  might  be  no  more  searching  ;  but  it  was  still  sought  for  in  a  desultory  way,  until 
she  was  quite  well,  and  the  company  took  their  departure. 

We  walked  very  slowly  home,  Mr.  Wickfield,  Agnes,  and  I ;  Agnes  and  I  admiring 


160  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

the  moonlight,  and  Mr.  Wickfield  scarcely  raising  his  eyes  from  the  ground.  When 
we,  at  last,  reached  our  own  door,  Agnes  discovered  that  she  had  left  her  little  reticule 
behind.     Delighted  to  be  of  any  service  to  her,  I  ran  back  to  fetch  it. 

I  went  into  the  supper-room  where  it  had  been  left,  which  was  deserted  and 
dark.  But  a  door  of  communication  between  that  and  the  Doctor's  study,  where 
there  was  a  light,  being  open,  I  passed  on  there,  to  say  what  I  wanted,  and  to  get  a 
candle. 

The  Doctor  was  sitting  in  his  easy-chair  by  the  fireside,  and  his  young  wife  was  on  a 
stool  at  his  feet.  The  Doctor,  with  a  complacent  smile,  was  reading  aloud  some 
manuscript  explanation  or  statement  of  a  theory  out  of  that  interminable  Dictionary, 
and  she  was  looking  up  at  him.  But,  with  such  a  face  I  never  saw.  It  was  so  beautiful 
in  its  form,  it  was  so  ashy  pale,  it  was  so  fixed  in  its  abstraction,  it  was  so  full  of  a 
wild,  sleep-walking,  dreamy  horror  of  I  don't  know  what.  The  eyes  were  wide  open, 
and  her  brown  hair  fell  in  two  rich  clusters  on  her  shoulders,  and  on  her  white  dress, 
disordered  by  the  want  of  the  lost  ribbon.  Distinctly  as  I  recollect  her  look,  I  cannot 
say  of  what  it  was  expressive.  I  cannot  even  say  of  what  it  is  expressive  to  me  now, 
rising  again  before  my  older  judgment.  Penitence,  humiliation,  shame,  pride,  love, 
and  trustfulness,  I  see  them  all  ;  and  in  them  all,  I  see  that  horror  of  I  don't  know 
what. 

My  entrance  and  my  saying  what  I  wanted,  roused  her.  It  disturbed  the  Doctor 
too,  for  when  I  went  back  to  replace  the  candle  I  had  taken  from  the  table,  he  was 
patting  her  head,  in  his  fatherly  way,  and  saying  he  was  a  merciless  drone  to  let  her 
tempt  him  into  reading  on  ;   and  he  would  have  her  go  to  bed. 

But  she  asked  him,  in  a  rapid,  urgent  manner,  to  let  her  stay.  To  let  her  feel 
assured  (I  heard  her  murmur  some  broken  words  to  this  effect)  that  she  was  in  his 
confidence  that  night.  And,  as  she  turned  again  towards  him,  after  glancing  at  me  as 
I  left  the  room  and  went  out  at  the  door,  I  saw  her  cross  her  hands  upon  his  knee,  and 
look  up  at  him  with  the  same  face,  something  quieted,  as  he  resumed  his  reading. 

It  made  a  great  impression  on  me,  and  I  remembered  it  a  long  time  afterwards, 
as  I  shall  have  occasion  to  narrate  when  the  time  comes. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

SOMEBODY    TURNS    UP 

IT  has  not  occurred  to  me  to  mention  Peggotty  since  I  ran  away ;  but,  of  course, 
I  wrote  her  a  letter  almost  as  soon  as  I  was  housed  at  Dover,  and  another  and 
a  longer  letter,  containing  all  particulars  fully  related,  when  my  aunt  took 
me  formally  under  her  protection.  On  my  being  settled  at  Doctor  Strong's 
I  wrote  to  her  again,  detailing  my  happy  condition  and  prospects.  I  never  could  have 
derived  anything  like  the  pleasure  from  spending  the  money  Mr.  Dick  had  given  me, 
that  I  felt  in  sending  a  gold  half-guinea  to  Peggotty,  per  post,  inclosed  m  this  last  letter, 
to  discharge  the  sum  I  had  borrowed  of  her  :  in  which  epistle,  not  before,  I  mentioned 
about  the  young  man  with  the  donkey-cart. 

To  these  communications  Peggotty  replied  as  promptly,  if  not  as  concisely,  as  a 
merchant's  clerk.     Her  utmost  powers  of  expression  (which  were  certainly  not  great  in 


SOMEBODY  TURNS  UP  161 

ink)  were  exhausted  in  the  attempt  to  write  what  she  felt  on  the  subject  of  my  journey. 
Four  sides  of  incoherent  and  interjectional  beginnings  of  sentences,  that  had  no  end, 
except  blots,  were  inadequate  to  afford  her  any  relief.  But  the  blots  were  more 
expressive  to  me  than  the  best  composition  ;  for  they  showed  me  that  Peggotty  had 
been  crying  all  over  the  paper,  and  what  could  I  have  desired  more  ? 

I  made  out,  without  much  difficulty,  that  she  could  not  take  quite  kindly  to  my  aunt 
yet.  The  notice  was  too  short  after  so  long  a  prepossession  the  other  way.  We  never 
knew  a  person,  she  wrote  ;  but  to  think  that  Miss  Betsey  should  seem  to  be  so  different 
from  what  she  had  been  thought  to  be,  was  a  Moral  !  That  was  her  word.  She  was 
evidently  still  afraid  of  Miss  Betsey,  for  she  sent  her  grateful  duty  to  her  but  timidly  ; 
and  she  was  evidently  afraid  of  me,  too,  and  entertained  the  probability  of  my  running 
away  again  soon  ;  if  I  might  judge  from  the  repeated  hints  she  threw  out,  that  the 
coach-fare  to  Yarmouth  was  always  to  be  had  of  her  for  the  asking. 

She  gave  me  one  piece  of  intelligence  which  affected  me  very  much,  namely,  that 
there  had  been  a  sale  of  the  furniture  at  our  old  home,  and  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone 
were  gone  away,  and  the  house  was  shut  up,  to  be  let  or  sold.  God  knows  I  had  no 
part  in  it  while  they  remained  there,  but  it  pained  me  to  think  of  the  dear  old  place  as 
altogether  abandoned  ;  of  the  weeds  growing  tall  in  the  garden,  and  the  fallen  leaves 
lying  thick  and  wet  upon  the  paths.  I  imagined  how  the  winds  of  winter  would  howl 
round  it,  how  the  cold  rain  would  beat  upon  the  window-glass,  how  the  moon  would 
make  ghosts  on  the  walls  of  the  empty  rooms,  watching  their  solitude  all  night.  I 
thought  afresh  of  the  grave  in  the  churchyard,  underneath  the  tree  :  and  it  seemed  as 
if  the  house  were  dead  too,  now,  and  all  connected  with  my  father  and  mother  were 
faded  away. 

There  was  no  other  news  in  Peggotty's  letters.  Mr.  Barkis  was  an  excellent 
husband,  she  said,  though  still  a  little  near ;  but  we  all  had  our  faults,  and  she  had 
plenty  (though  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  they  were) ;  and  he  sent  his  duty,  and 
my  little  bedroom  was  always  ready  for  me.  Mr.  Peggotty  was  well,  and  Ham  was  well, 
and  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  but  poorly,  and  little  Em'ly  wouldn't  send  her  love,  but  said 
that  Peggotty  might  send  it,  if  she  liked. 

All  this  intelligence  I  dutifully  imparted  to  my  aunt,  only  reserving  to  myself 
the  mention  of  little  Em'ly,  to  whom  I  instinctively  felt  that  she  would  not  very 
tenderly  incline.  While  I  was  yet  new  at  Doctor  Strong's,  she  made  several  excursions 
over  to  Canterbury  to  see  me,  and  always  at  unseasonable  hours  :  with  the  view,  I 
suppose,  of  taking  me  by  surprise.  But,  finding  me  well  employed,  and  bearing  a 
good  character,  and  hearing  on  all  hands  that  I  rose  fast  in  the  school,  she  soon  dis- 
continued these  visits.  I  saw  her  on  a  Saturday,  every  third  or  fourth  week,  when  I 
went  over  to  Dover  for  a  treat  ;  and  I  saw  Mr.  Dick  every  alternate  Wednesday,  when 
he  arrived  by  stage-coach  at  noon,  to  stay  until  next  morning. 

On  these  occasions  Mr.  Dick  never  travelled  without  a  leather  writing-desk, 
containing  a  supply  of  stationery  and  the  Memorial ;  in  relation  to  which  document 
he  had  a  notion  that  time  was  beginning  to  press  now,  and  that  it  really  must  be  got 
out  of  hand. 

Mr.  Dick  was  very  partial  to  gingerbread.  To  render  his  visits  the  more  agree- 
able, my  aunt  had  instructed  me  to  open  a  credit  for  him  at  a  cake-shop,  which  was 
hampered  with  the  stipulation  that  he  should  not  be  sers-ed  with  more  than  one 
shilling's-worth  in  the  course  of  any  one  day.  This,  and  the  reference  of  all  his  little 
bills  at  the  county  inn  where  he  slept,  to  my  aunt,  before  they  were  paid,  induced  me 

F 


162  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

to  suspect  that  he  was  only  allowed  to  rattle  his  money,  and  not  to  spend  it.  I  found 
on  further  investigation  that  this  was  so,  or  at  least  there  was  an  agreement  between 
him  and  my  aunt  that  he  should  account  to  her  for  all  his  disbursements.  As  he  had 
no  idea  of  deceiving  her,  and  always  desired  to  please  her,  he  was  thus  made  chary  of 
launching  into  expense.  On  this  point,  as  well  as  on  all  other  possible  points,  Mr. 
Dick  was  convinced  that  my  aunt  was  the  wisest  and  most  wonderful  of  women  ;  as 
he  repeatedly  told  me  with  infinite  secrecy,  and  always  in  a  whisper. 

'  Trotwood,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  after  imparting  this  confidence 
to  me,  one  Wednesday  ;  '  who  's  the  man  that  hides  near  our  house  and  frightens 
her?' 

'  Frightens  my  aunt,  sir  ?  ' 

Mr.  Dick  nodded.     '  I  thought  nothing  would  have  frightened  her,'  he  said,  '  for 

she  's '  here  he  whispered  softly,  '  don't  mention  it — the  wisest  and  most  wonderful 

of  women.'  Having  said  which,  he  drew  back,  to  observe  the  effect  which  this 
description  of  her  made  upon  me. 

'  The  first  time  he  came,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  '  was — let  me  see^sixteen  hundred  and 
forty-nine  was  the  date  of  King  Charles's  execution.  I  think  you  said  sixteen  hundred 
and  forty-nine  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'  I  don't  know  how  it  can  be,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  sorely  puzzled  and  shaking  his  head. 
'  I  don't  think  I  am  as  old  as  that.' 

'  Was  it  in  that  year  that  the  man  appeared,  sir  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  Why,  really,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  '  I  don't  see  how  it  can  have  been  in  that  year, 
Trotwood.     Did  you  get  that  date  out  of  history  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

'  I  suppose  history  never  lies,  does  it  ?  '  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  a  gleam  of  hope. 

'  Oh  dear,  no,  sir ! '  I  replied,  most  decisively.  I  was  ingenuous  and  young,  and  I 
thought  so. 

'  I  can't  make  it  out,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  shaking  his  head.  '  There  's  something 
wrong,  somewhere.  However,  it  was  very  soon  after  the  mistake  was  made  of  putting 
some  of  the  trouble  out  of  King  Charles's  head  into  my  head,  that  the  man  first  came. 
I  was  walking  out  with  Miss  Trotwood  after  tea,  just  at  dark,  and  there  he  was,  close 
to  our  house.' 

'  Walking  about  ?  '  I  inquried. 

'  Walking  about  ?  '  repeated  Mr.  Dick.  '  Let  me  see.  I  must  recollect  a  bit. 
N— no,  no  ;   he  was  not  walking  about.' 

I  asked,  as  the  shortest  way  to  get  at  it,  what  he  was  doing. 

'  Well,  he  wasn't  there  at  all,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  '  until  he  came  up  behind  her,  and 
whispered.  Then  she  turned  round  and  fainted,  and  I  stood  still  and  looked  at  him, 
and  he  walked  away  ;  but  that  he  should  have  been  hiding  ever  since  (in  the  ground 
or  somewhere),  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing  !  ' 

'  Has  he  been  hiding  ever  since  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  To  be  sure  he  has,'  retorted  Mr.  Dick,  nodding  his  head  gravely.  '  Never  came 
out,  till  last  night !  We  were  walking  last  night,  and  he  came  up  behind  her  again,  and 
I  knew  him  again.' 

'  And  did  he  frighten  my  aunt  again  ?  ' 

'  All  of  a  shiver,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  counterfeiting  that  affection  and  making  his  teeth 
chatter.     '  Held  by  the  palings.     Cried.     But,  Trotwood,  come  here,'  getting  me  close 


SOMEBODY  TURNS  UP  168 

to  him,  that  he  might  whisper  very  soitly  ;  '  why  did  she  give  him  money,  boy,  in  the 
moonlight  ?  ' 

'  He  was  a  beggar,  perhaps.' 

Mr.  Dick  shook  iiis  head,  as  utterly  renouncing  the  suggestion  ;  and  having  replied 
a  great  many  times,  and  with  great  confidence,  '  No  beggar,  no  beggar,  no  beggar,  sir  !  ' 
went  on  to  say,  that  from  his  window  he  had  aftei-wards,  and  late  at  night,  seen  my 
aunt  give  this  person  money  outside  the  garden  rails  in  the  moonlight,  who  then  slunk 
away — into  the  ground  again,  as  he  thought  probable— and  was  seen  no  more  :  while 
my  aunt  came  hurriedly  and  secretly  back  into  the  house,  and  had,  even  that  morning, 
been  quite  different  from  her  usual  self  ;   which  jjreyed  on  Mr.  Dick's  mind. 

I  had  not  the  least  belief,  in  the  outset  of  this  story,  that  the  unknown  was  any- 
thing but  a  delusion  of  Mr.  Dick's,  and  one  of  the  line  of  that  ill-fated  Prince  who 
occasioned  him  so  much  difficulty  ;  but  after  some  reflection  I  began  to  entertain  the 
question  whether  an  attempt,  or  threat  of  an  attempt,  might  have  been  twice  made 
to  take  poor  Mr.  Dick  himself  from  under  my  aunt's  protection,  and  whether  my  aunt, 
the  strength  of  whose  kind  feeling  towards  him  I  knew  from  herself,  might  have  been 
induced  to  pay  a  price  for  his  peace  and  quiet.  As  I  was  already  much  attached  to 
Mr.  Dick,  and  very  solicitous  for  his  welfare,  my  fears  favoured  this  supposition  ; 
and  for  a  long  time  his  Wednesday  hardly  ever  came  round,  without  my  entertaining 
a  misgiving  that  he  would  not  be  on  the  coach-box  as  usual.  There  he  always  appeared, 
however,  grey-headed,  laughing,  and  happy  ;  and  he  never  had  anything  more  to  tell 
of  the  man  who  could  frighten  my  aunt. 

These  Wednesdays  were  the  hapjiicst  days  of  Mr.  Dick's  life  ;  they  were  far  from 
being  the  least  happy  of  mine.  He  soon  became  known  to  every  boy  in  the  school  ; 
and  though  he  never  took  an  active  part  in  any  game  but  kite-flying,  was  as  deeply 
interested  in  all  our  sports  as  any  one  among  us.  How  often  have  I  seen  him,  intent 
upon  a  match  at  marbles  or  peg-top,  looking  on  with  a  face  of  unutterable  interest, 
and  hardly  breathing  at  the  critical  times  !  How  often,  at  hare  and  hounds,  have  I 
seen  him  mounted  on  a  little  knoll,  cheering  the  whole  field  on  to  action,  and  waving 
his  hat  above  his  grey  head,  oblivious  of  King  Charles  the  Martyr's  head,  and  all 
belonging  to  it  !  How  many  a  summer-hour  have  I  known  to  be  but  blissful  minutes 
to  him  in  the  cricket-field  !  How  many  winter  days  have  I  seen  him,  standing  blue- 
nosed,  in  the  snow  and  east  wind,  looking  at  the  boys  going  down  the  long  slide,  and 
clapping  his  worsted  gloves  in  rapture  ! 

He  was  a  universal  favourite,  and  his  ingenuity  in  little  things  was  transcendent. 
He  could  cut  oranges  into  such  devices  as  none  of  us  had  an  idea  of.  He  could  make 
a  boat  out  of  anything,  from  a  skewer  upwards.  He  could  turn  crampbones  into 
chessmen  ;  fashion  Roman  chariots  from  old  court  cards  ;  make  spoked  wheels  out 
of  cotton  reels,  and  birdcages  of  old  wire.  But  he  was  greatest  of  all,  perhaps,  in  the 
articles  of  string  and  straw  ;  with  which  we  were  all  persuaded  he  could  do  anything 
that  could  be  done  by  hands. 

Mr.  Dick's  renoAvn  was  not  long  confined  to  us.  After  a  few  Wednesdays,  Doctor 
Strong  himself  made  some  inquiries  of  me  about  him,  and  I  told  him  all  my  aunt  had 
told  me  ;  which  interested  the  Doctor  so  much  that  he  requested,  on  the  occasion  of 
his  next  visit,  to  be  presented  to  him.  This  ceremony  I  performed  ;  and  the  Doctor 
begging  Mr.  Dick,  whensoever  he  should  not  find  me  at  the  coach-office,  to  come  on 
there,  and  rest  himself  until  our  morning's  work  was  over,  it  soon  passed  into  a  custom 
for  Mr.  Dick  to  come  on  as  a  matter  of  course,  and,  if  we  were  a  little  late,  as  often 


164  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

happened  on  a  Wednesday,  to  walk  about  the  courtyard,  waiting  for  me.  Here  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Doctor's  beautiful  young  wife  (paler  than  formerly, 
all  this  time  ;  more  rarely  seen  by  me  or  any  one,  I  think  ;  and  not  so  gay,  but  not  less 
beautiful),  and  so  became  more  and  more  familiar  by  degrees,  until,  at  last,  he  would 
come  into  the  school  and  wait.  He  always  sat  in  a  particular  corner,  on  a  particular 
stool,  which  was  called  '  Dick,'  after  him  ;  here  he  would  sit,  with  his  grey  head 
bent  forward,  attentively  listening  to  whatever  might  be  going  on,  with  a  profound 
veneration  for  the  learning  he  had  never  been  able  to  acquire. 

This  veneration  Mr.  Dick  extended  to  the  Doctor,  whom  he  thought  the  most 
subtle  and  accomplished  philosopher  of  any  age.  It  was  long  before  Mr.  Dick  ever 
spoke  to  him  other^vise  than  bareheaded  ;  and  even  when  he  and  the  Doctor  had 
struck  up  quite  a  friendship,  and  would  walk  together  by  the  hour,  on  that  side  of  the 
courtyard  which  was  known  among  us  as  The  Doctor's  Walk,  Mr.  Dick  would  pull  off 
his  hat  at  intervals  to  show  his  respect  for  wisdom  and  knowledge.  How  it  ever  came 
about,  that  the  Doctor  began  to  read  out  scraps  of  the  famous  Dictionary,  in  these 
walks,  I  never  knew  ;  perhaps  he  felt  it  all  the  same,  at  first,  as  reading  to  himself. 
However,  it  passed  into  a  custom  too  ;  and  Mr.  Dick,  listening  with  a  face  shining 
with  pride  and  pleasure,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  believed  the  Dictionary  to  be  the  most 
delightful  book  in  the  world. 

As  I  think  of  them  going  up  and  down  before  those  schoolroom  windows — the 
Doctor  reading  with  his  complacent  smile,  an  occasional  flourish  of  the  manuscript, 
or  grave  motion  of  his  head  ;  and  Mr.  Dick  listening,  enchained  by  interest,  with  his 
poor  wits  calmly  wandering  God  knows  where,  upon  the  wings  of  hard  words — I  think 
of  it  as  one  of  the  pleasantest  things,  in  a  quiet  way,  that  I  have  ever  seen.  I  feel 
as  if  they  might  go  walking  to  and  fro  for  ever,  and  the  world  might  somehow  be  the 
better  for  it.  As  if  a  thousand  things  it  makes  a  noise  about,  were  not  one-half  so 
good  for  it,  or  me. 

Agnes  was  one  of  Mr.  Dick's  friends,  very  soon  ;  and  in  often  coming  to  the  house, 
he  made  acquaintance  with  Uriah.  The  friendship  between  himself  and  me  increased 
continually,  and  it  was  maintained  on  this  odd  footing  :  that,  while  Mr.  Dick  came 
professedly  to  look  after  me  as  my  guardian,  he  always  consulted  me  in  any  little 
matter  of  doubt  that  arose,  and  invariably  guided  hunself  by  my  advice  ;  not  only 
having  a  high  respect  for  my  native  sagacity,  but  considering  that  I  inherited  a  good 
deal  from  my  aunt. 

One  Thursday  morning,  when  I  was  about  to  walk  with  Mr.  Dick  from  the  hotel 
to  the  coach-ofhce  before  going  back  to  school  (for  we  had  an  hour's  school  before 
breakfast),  I  met  Uriah  in  the  street,  who  reminded  me  of  the  promise  I  had  made  to 
take  tea  with  himself  and  his  mother  :  adding,  with  a  writhe,  '  But  I  didn't  expect 
you  to  keep  it.  Master  Copperfield,  we  're  so  very  umble.' 

I  really  had  not  yet  been  able  to  make  up  my  mind  whether  I  liked  Uriah  or 
detested  him  ;  and  I  was  very  doubtful  about  it  still,  as  I  stood  looking  him  in  the 
face  in  the  street.  But  I  felt  it  quite  an  affront  to  be  supposed  proud,  and  said  I 
only  wanted  to  be  asked. 

'  Oh,  if  that 's  all.  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah,  '  and  it  really  isn't  our  umble- 
ness  that  prevents  you,  will  you  come  this  evening  ?  But  if  it  is  our  umbleness,  I  hope 
you  won't  mind  owning  to  it.  Master  Copperfield  ;  for  we  are  all  well  aware  of  our 
condition.' 

I  said  I  would  mention  it  to  Mr.  Wickfield,  and  if  he  approved,  as  I  had  no  doubt 


SOMEBODY  TURNS  UP  165 

he  woTild,  I  would  come  with  pleasure.     So,  at  six  o'clock  that  evening,  which  was  one 
of  the  early  oflitx-  evenings,  I  announced  myself  as  ready,  to  Uriah. 

'  Mother  will  be  proud,  indeed,'  he  said,  as  we  walked  away  together.  '  Or  she 
would  be  proud,  if  it  wasn't  sinful.  Master  Copperfield.' 

'  Yet  you  didn't  mind  supposing  /  was  proud  this  morning,'  I  returned. 

'  Oh  dear,  no.  Master  Copperfield  !  '  returned  Uriah.  '  Oh,  believe  me,  no.  Such 
a  thought  never  came  into  my  head  !  I  shouldn't  have  deemed  it  at  all  proud  if  you 
had  thought  us  too  umble  for  you.     Because  we  are  so  very  umble.' 

'  ilave  you  been  studying  much  law  lately  ?  '  I  asked,  to  change  the  subject. 

'  Oh,  Master  Copperfield,'  he  said,  with  an  air  of  self-denial,  '  my  reading  is  hardly 
to  be  called  study.  I  have  passed  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening,  sometimes,  with 
Mr.  Tidd.' 

'  Rather  hard,  I  suppose  ?  '  said  I. 

'  He  is  hard  to  me  sometimes,'  returned  Uriah.  '  But  I  don't  know  what  he  might 
be,  to  a  gifted  person.' 

After  beating  a  little  tune  on  his  chin  as  he  walked  on,  with  the  two  forefingers  of 
his  skeleton  right-hand,  he  added— 

'  There  are  expressions,  you  see,  Master  Copperfield — Latin  words  and  terms — 
in  Mr.  Tidd,  that  are  trying  to  a  reader  of  my  umble  attainments.' 

'  Would  you  like  to  be  taught  Latin  ?  '  I  said,  briskly.  '  I  will  teach  it  you  with 
pleasure,  as  I  learn  it.' 

'  Oh,  thank  you,  Master  Copperfield,'  he  answered,  shaking  his  head.  '  I  am 
sure  it 's  very  kind  of  you  to  make  the  offer,  but  I  am  much  too  umble  to  accept  it.' 

'  What  nonsense,  Uriah  !  ' 

'  Oh,  indeed  you  must  excuse  me,  Master  Copperfield  !  I  am  greatly  obliged, 
and  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,  I  assure  you  ;  but  I  am  far  too  umble.  There  are 
people  enough  to  tread  upon  me  in  my  lowly  state,  without  my  doing  outrage  to  their 
feelings  by  possessing  learning.  Learning  ain't  for  me.  A  person  like  myself  had 
better  not  aspire.     If  he  is  to  get  on  in  life,  he  must  get  on  umbly.  Master  Copperfield.' 

I  never  saw  his  mouth  so  wide,  or  the  creases  in  his  cheeks  so  deep,  as  when  he 
delivered  himself  of  these  sentiments  :  shaking  his  head  all  the  time,  and  writhing 
modestly. 

'  I  think  you  are  wrong,  Uriah,'  I  said.  '  I  dare  say  there  are  several  things 
that  I  could  teach  you,  if  you  would  like  to  learn  them.' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  doubt  that.  Master  Copperfield,'  he  answered  ;  '  not  in  the  least. 
But  not  being  umble  yourself,  you  don't  judge  well,  perhaps,  for  them  that  are.  I 
won't  provoke  my  betters  with  knowledge,  thank  you.  I  'm  much  too  umble.  Here 
is  my  umble  dwelling,  Master  Copperfield  !  ' 

We  entered  a  low,  old-fashioned  room,  walked  straight  into  from  the  street,  and 
found  there  Mrs.  Heep,  who  was  the  dead  image  of  Uriah,  only  short.  She  received  me 
with  the  utmost  humility,  and  apologised  to  me  for  giving  her  son  a  kiss,  observing 
that,  lowly  as  they  were,  they  had  their  natural  affections,  which  they  hoped  would 
give  no  offence  to  any  one.  It  was  a  perfectly  decent  room,  half  parlour  and  half 
kitchen,  but  not  at  all  a  snug  room.  The  tea-things  were  set  upon  the  table,  and 
the  kettle  was  boiling  on  the  hob.  There  was  a  chest  of  drawers  with  an  escritoire 
top,  for  Uriah  to  read  or  write  at  of  an  evening  ;  there  was  Uriah's  blue  bag  l>'ing 
down  and  vomiting  papers  ;  there  was  a  company  of  Uriah's  books  commanded  by 
Mr.  Tidd  ;  there  was  a  corner  cupboard  ;  and  there  were  the  usual  articles  of  furniture. 


166  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  don't  remember  that  any  individual  object  had  a  bare,  pinched,  spare  look  ;  but  I 
do  remember  that  the  whole  place  had. 

It  was  perhaps  a  part  of  Mrs.  Heep's  humility,  that  she  still  wore  weeds.  Notwith- 
standing the  lapse  of  time  that  had  occurred  since  Mr.  Heep's  decease,  she  still  wore 
weeds.  I  think  there  was  some  compromise  in  the  cap  ;  but  otherwise  she  was  as 
weedy  as  in  the  early  days  of  her  mourning. 

'  This  is  a  day  to  be  remembered,  my  Uriah,  I  am  sure,'  said  Mrs.  Heep,  making 
the  tea,  '  when  Master  Copperfield  pays  us  a  visit.' 

'  I  said  you  'd  think  so,  mother,'  said  Uriah. 

'  If  I  could  have  wished  father  to  remain  among  us  for  any  reason,'  said  Mrs. 
Heep,  '  it  would  have  been,  that  he  might  have  known  his  company  this  afternoon.' 

I  felt  embarrassed  by  these  compliments  ;  but  I  was  sensible,  too,  of  being  enter- 
tained as  an  honoured  guest,  and  I  thought  Mrs.  Heep  an  agreeable  woman. 

'  My  Uriah,'  said  Mrs.  Heep,  '  has  looked  forward  to  this,  sir,  a  long  while.  He 
had  his  fears  that  our  umbleness  stood  in  the  way,  and  I  joined  in  them  myself.  Umble 
we  are,  umble  we  have  been,  umble  we  shall  ever  be,'  said  Mrs.  Heep. 

'  I  am  sure  you  have  no  occasion  to  be  so,  ma'am,'  I  said,  '  unless  you  like.' 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  retorted  Mrs.  Heep.  '  We  know  our  station  and  are  thankful 
in  it.' 

I  found  that  Mrs.  Heep  gradually  got  nearer  to  me,  and  that  Uriah  gradually 
got  opposite  to  me,  and  that  they  respectfully  plied  me  with  the  choicest  of  the  eatables 
on  the  table.  There  was  nothing  particularly  choice  there,  to  be  sure  ;  but  I  took 
the  will  for  the  deed,  and  felt  that  they  were  very  attentive.  Presently  they  began 
to  talk  about  aunts,  and  then  I  told  them  about  mine  ;  and  about  fathers  and  mothers, 
and  then  I  told  them  about  mine  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Heep  began  to  talk  about  fathers- 
in-law,  and  then  I  began  to  tell  her  about  mine  ;  but  stopped,  because  my  aunt  had 
advised  me  to  observe  a  silence  on  that  subject.  A  tender  young  cork,  however, 
would  have  had  no  more  chance  against  a  pair  of  corkscrews,  or  a  tender  young  tooth 
against  a  pair  of  dentists,  or  a  little  shuttlecock  against  two  battledores,  than  I  had 
against  Uriah  and  Mrs.  Heep.  They  did  just  what  they  liked  with  me  ;  and  wormed 
things  out  of  me  that  I  had  no  desire  to  tell,  with  a  certainty  I  blush  to  think  of  :  the 
more  especially  as,  in  my  juvenile  frankness,  I  took  some  credit  to  myself  for  being  so 
confidential,  and  felt  that  I  was  quite  the  patron  of  my  two  respectful  entertainers. 

They  were  very  fond  of  one  another  :  that  was  certain.  I  take  it,  that  had  its 
effect  upon  me,  as  a  touch  of  nature  ;  but  the  skill  with  which  the  one  followed  up 
whatever  the  other  said,  was  a  touch  of  art  which  I  was  still  less  proof  against.  When 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  got  out  of  me  about  myself  (for  on  the  Murdstone  and 
Grinby  life,  and  on  my  journey,  I  was  dumb),  they  began  about  Mr.  Wickfield  and 
Agnes.  Uriah  threw  the  ball  to  Mrs.  Heep,  Mrs.  Heep  caught  it  and  threw  it  back  to 
Uriah,  Uriah  kept  it  up  a  little  while,  then  sent  it  back  to  Mrs.  Heep,  and  so  they  went 
on  tossing  it  about  until  I  had  no  idea  who  had  got  it,  and  was  quite  bewildered.  The 
ball  itself  was  always  changing  too.  Now  it  was  Mr.  Wickfield,  now  Agnes,  now  the 
excellence  of  Mr.  Wickfield,  now  my  admiration  of  Agnes  ;  now  the  extent  of  Mr. 
Wickfield's  business  and  resources,  now  our  domestic  life  after  dinner  ;  now  the  wine 
that  Mr.  Wickfield  took,  the  reason  why  he  took  it,  and  the  pity  that  it  was  he  took 
so  much  ;  now  one  thing,  now  another,  then  everything  at  once  ;  and  all  the  time, 
without  appearing  to  speak  very  often,  or  to  do  anything  but  sometimes  encourage 
them  a  little,  for  fear  they  should  be  overcome  by  their  humility  and  the  honour  of 


SOMEBODY  TURNS  UP  167 

my  company,  I  fouml  myself  perpetually  lettinf^  out  something  or  other  that  I  had 
no  business  to  let  out,  and  seeing  the  effect  of  it  in  the  twinkling  of  Uriah's  dinted 
nostrils. 

I  had  begun  to  be  a  little  uncomfortable,  and  to  wish  myself  well  out  of  the  visit, 
when  a  figure  coming  down  the  street  passed  the  door — it  stood  open  to  air  the  room, 
which  was  warm,  the  weather  being  close  for  the  time  of  year— came  back  again, 
looked  in,  and  walked  in,  exclaiming  loudly,  '  Copperfield  !     Is  it  possible  ?  ' 

It  was  Mr.  Micawber  !  It  was  Mr.  Micawber,  with  his  eye-glass,  and  his  walking- 
stick,  and  his  shirt-collar,  and  his  genteel  air,  and  the  condescending  roll  in  his  voice, 
all  complete  ! 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  putting  out  his  hand,  '  this  is  indeed  a 
meeting  which  is  calculated  to  impress  the  mind  with  a  sense  of  the  instability  and 
uncertainty  of  all  human — in  short,  it  is  a  most  extraordinary  meeting.  Walking 
along  the  street,  reflecting  upon  the  probability  of  something  turning  up  (of  which  I 
am  at  present  rather  sanguine),  I  find  a  young  but  valued  friend  turn  up,  who  is 
connected  with  the  most  eventful  period  of  my  life  ;  I  may  say,  with  the  turning 
point  of  my  existence.     Copperfield,  my  dear  fellow,  how  do  you  do  ?  ' 

I  cannot  say — I  really  cannot  say — that  I  was  glad  to  see  Mr.  Micawber  there  ; 
but  I  was  glad  to  see  him  too,  and  shook  hands  with  him  heartily,  inquiring  how  Mrs. 
Micawber  was. 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  waving  his  hand  as  of  old,  and  settling  his  chin 
in  his  shirt-collar.  '  She  is  tolerably  convalescent.  The  twins  no  longer  derive  their 
sustenance  from  Nature's  founts^in  short,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  in  one  of  his  bursts  of 
confidence,  '  they  are  weaned — and  Mrs.  Micawber  is,  at  present,  my  travelling  com- 
panion. She  will  be  rejoiced,  Copperfield,  to  renew  her  acquaintance  with  one  who 
has  proved  himself  in  all  respects  a  worthy  minister  at  the  sacred  altar  of  friendship.' 

I  said  I  should  be  delighted  to  see  her. 

'  You  are  very  good,'  said  Mr.  Micawber. 

Mr.  Micawber  then  smiled,  settled  his  chin  again,  and  looked  about  him. 

'  I  have  discovered  my  friend  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber  genteelly,  and 
without  addressing  himself  particularly  to  any  one,  '  not  in  solitude,  but  partaking  of  a 
social  meal  in  company  with  a  widowed  lady,  and  one  who  is  apparently  her  offspring 
— in  short,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  in  another  of  his  bursts  of  confidence,  '  her  son.  I  shall 
esteem  it  an  honour  to  be  presented.' 

I  could  do  no  less,  under  these  circumstances,  than  make  Mr.  Micawber  known 
to  Uriah  Heep  and  his  mother  ;  which  I  accordingly  did.  As  they  abased  themselves 
before  him,  Mr.  Micawber  took  a  seat,  and  waved  his  hand  in  his  most  courtly  manner. 

'  Any  friend  of  my  friend  Copperfield's,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  has  a  personal  claim 
upon  myself.' 

'  We  are  too  umble,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Heep,  '  my  son  and  me,  to  be  the  friends  of 
Master  Copperfield.  He  has  been  so  good  as  take  his  tea  with  us,  and  we  are  thankful 
to  him  for  his  company  ;  also  to  you,  sir,  for  your  notice.' 

'  Ma'am,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  bow,  '  you  are  very  obliging  :  and  what 
are  you  doing,  Copperfield  ?     Still  in  the  wine  trade  ?  ' 

I  was  excessively  anxious  to  get  Mr.  Micawber  away  ;  and  repUed,  with  my  hat 
in  my  hand,  and  a  very  red  face,  I  have  no  doubt,  that  I  was  a  pupil  at  Doctor  Strong's. 

'  A  pupil  '?  '  said  Mr.  Micawber,  raising  his  eyebrows.  '  I  am  extremely  happy 
to  hear  it.     Although  a  mind  like  my  friend  Copperfield's  '  ;   to  Uriah  and  Mrs.  Heep  ; 


168  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  does  not  require  that  cultivation  which,  without  his  knowledge  of  men  and  things,  it 
would  require,  still  it  is  a  rich  soil  teeming  with  latent  vegetation — in  short,'  said 
Mr.  Micawber,  smiling,  in  another  burst  of  confidence,  '  it  is  an  intellect  capable  of 
getting  up  the  classics  to  any  extent.' 

Uriah,  with  his  long  hands  slowly  twining  over  one  another,  made  a  ghastly 
writhe  from  the  waist  upwards,  to  express  his  concurrence  in  this  estimation  of  me. 

'  Shall  we  go  and  see  Mrs.  Micawber,  sir  ?  '  I  said,  to  get  Mr.  Micawber  away. 

'  If  you  will  do  her  that  favour,  Copperfield,'  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  rising.  '  I 
have  no  scruple  in  saying,  in  the  presence  of  our  friends  here,  that  I  am  a  man  who 
has,  for  some  years,  contended  against  the  pressure  of  pecuniary  difficulties.'  I  knew 
he  was  certain  to  say  something  of  this  kind  ;  he  always  would  be  so  boastful  about 
his  difficulties.  '  Sometimes  I  have  risen  superior  to  my  difficulties.  Sometimes  my 
difficulties  have — in  short,  have  floored  me.  There  have  been  times  when  I  have 
administered  a  succession  of  facers  to  them  ;  there  have  been  times  when  they  have 
been  too  many  for  me,  and  I  have  given  in,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Miacwber  in  the  words 
of  Cato,  "  Plato,  thou  reasonest  well.  It 's  all  up  now.  I  can  show  fight  no  more." 
But  at  no  time  of  my  life,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  have  I  enjoyed  a  higher  degree  of 
satisfaction  than  in  pouring  my  griefs  (if  I  may  describe  difficulties,  chiefly  arising  out 
of  warrants  of  attorney  and  promissory  notes  at  two  and  four  months,  by  that  word) 
into  the  bosom  of  my  friend  Copperfield.' 

Mr.  Micawber  closed  this  handsome  tribute  by  saying,  '  Mr.  Heep  !  Good  evening. 
Mrs.  Heep  !  Your  servant,'  and  then  walking  out  with  me  in  his  most  fashionable 
manner,  making  a  good  deal  of  noise  on  the  pavement  with  his  shoes,  and  humming 
a  tune  as  he  went. 

It  was  a  little  inn  where  Mr.  Micawber  put  up,  and  he  occupied  a  little  room  in  it, 
partitioned  off  from  the  commercial  room,  and  strongly  flavoured  with  tobacco-smoke. 
I  think  it  was  over  the  kitchen,  because  a  warm  greasy  smell  appeared  to  come  up 
tlirough  the  chinks  in  the  floor,  and  there  was  a  flabby  perspiration  on  the  walls.  I 
know  it  was  near  the  bar,  on  account  of  the  smell  of  spirits  and  jingling  of  glasses. 
Here,  recumbent  on  a  small  sofa,  underneath  a  picture  of  a  racehorse,  with  her  head 
close  to  the  fire,  and  her  feet  pushing  the  mustard  off  the  dumb-waiter  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  was  Mrs.  Micawber,  to  whom  Mr.  Micawber  entered  first,  sajdng, 
'  My  dear,  allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  a  pupil  of  Doctor  Strong's.' 

I  noticed,  by  the  bye,  that  although  Mr.  Micawber  was  just  as  much  confused  as 
ever  about  my  age  and  standing,  he  always  remembered,  as  a  genteel  thing,  that  I  was 
a  pupil  of  Doctor  Strong's. 

Mrs.  Micawber  was  amazed,  but  very  glad  to  see  me.  I  was  very  glad  to  see  her 
too,  and,  after  an  affectionate  greeting  on  both  sides,  sat  down  on  the  small  sofa 
near  her. 

'  My  dear,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  if  you  will  mention  to  Copperfield  what  our 
present  position  is,  which  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  like  to  know,  I  will  go  and  look  at  the 
paper  the  while,  and  see  whether  anything  turns  up  among  the  advertisements.' 

'  I  thought  you  were  at  Plymouth,  ma'am,'  I  said  to  Mrs.  Micawber,  as  he 
went  out. 

'  My  dear  Master  Copperfield,'  she  replied,  '  we  went  to  Plymouth.' 

'  To  be  on  the  spot,'  I  hinted. 

'  Just  so,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  To  be  on  the  spot.  But,  the  truth  is,  talent 
is  not  wanted  in  the  Custom  House.     The  local  influence  of  my  family  was  quite 


SOMEBODY  TURNS  UP  169 

unavailing  to  obtain  any  employment  in  that  department,  for  a  man  of  Mr.  Micawber's 
abilities.  They  would  rather  not  have  a  man  of  Mr.  Micawber's  abilities.  He  would 
only  show  the  deficiency  of  the  others.  Apart  from  which,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  I 
will  not  disf^uise  from  you,  my  dear  Master  Copperfield,  that  when  that  branch  of  my 
family  which  is  settled  in  Plymoulh  became  aware  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  accompanied 
by  myself,  and  by  little  Wilkins  and  his  sister,  and  by  the  twins,  they  did  not  receive 
him  with  that  ardour  which  he  might  have  expected,  being  so  newly  released  from 
captivity.  In  fact,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  lowering  her  voice, — '  this  is  between  ourselves 
— our  reception  was  cool.' 

'  Dear  me  !  '  I  said. 

'  Yes,'  .said  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  It  is  truly  pauiful  to  contcm{)]ate  mankind  in  such 
an  aspect.  Master  Copperfield,  but  our  reception  was,  decidedly,  cool.  There  is  no 
doubt  about  it.  In  fact,  that  branch  of  my  family  which  is  settled  in  Plymouth 
became  quite  personal  to  Mr.  Micawber,  before  we  had  been  there  a  week.' 

I  said,  and  thought,  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves. 

'  Still,  so  it  was,'  continued  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  Under  such  circumstances,  what 
could  a  man  of  Mr.  Micawber's  spirit  do  ?  But  one  obvious  course  was  left.  To 
borrow  of  that  branch  of  my  family  the  money  to  return  to  London,  and  to  return  at 
any  sacrifice.' 

'  Then  you  all  came  back  again,  ma'am  ?  '  I  said. 

'  We  all  came  back  again,'  replied  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  Since  then,  I  have  consulted 
other  branches  of  my  family  on  the  course  which  it  is  most  expedient  for  Mr.  Micawber 
to  take — for  I  maintain  that  he  must  take  some  course,  Master  Copperfield,'  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  argumentatively.  '  It  is  clear  that  a  family  of  six,  not  including  a 
domestic,  cannot  live  upon  air.' 

'  Certainly,  ma'am,'  said  1. 

'  The  opinion  of  those  other  branches  of  my  family,'  pursued  Mrs.  Micawber, 
'  is,  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  immediately  turn  his  attention  to  coals.' 

'  To  what,  ma'am  ?  ' 

'  To  coals,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  To  the  coal  trade.  Mr.  Micawber  w-as  induced 
to  think,  on  inquiry,  that  there  might  be  an  opening  for  a  man  of  his  talent  in  the 
Medway  Coal  Trade.  Then,  as  Mr.  Micawber  very  properly  said,  the  first  step  to  be 
taken  clearly  was,  to  come  and  see  the  Medway.  Which  we  came  and  saw.  I  say 
"  we,"  Master  Copperfield  ;  for  I  never  will,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber  with  emotion,  '  I 
never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.' 

I  murmured  my  admiration  and  approbation. 

'  We  came,'  repeated  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  and  saw  the  Medway.  My  opinion  of  the 
coal  trade  on  that  river,  is,  that  it  may  require  talent,  but  that  it  certainly  requires 
capital.  Talent,  Mr.  Micawber  has  ;  capital,  Mr.  Micawber  has  not.  We  saw,  I 
think,  the  greater  part  of  the  Medway  ;  and  that  is  my  individual  conclusion.  Being 
so  near  here,  Mr.  Micawber  was  of  opinion  that  it  would  be  rash  not  to  come  on,  and  see 
the  cathedral.  Firstly,  on  account  of  its  being  so  well  worth  seeing,  and  our  never 
having  seen  it  ;  and  secondly,  on  account  of  the  great  probability  of  something  turning 
up  in  a  cathedral  to\vn.  We  have  been  here,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  three  days. 
Nothing  has,  as  yet,  turned  up  ;  and  it  may  not  surprise  you,  my  dear  Master 
Copperfield,  so  much  as  it  would  a  stranger,  to  know  that  we  are  at  present  waiting 
for  a  remittance  from  London,  to  discharge  our  pecuniary  obligations  at  this  hotel. 
Until  the  arrival  of  that  remittance,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber  with  much  feeling,  '  I  am 

f2 


170  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

cut  off  from  my  home  (I  allude  to  lodgings  in  Pentonville),  from  my  boy  and  girl, 
and  from  my  twins.' 

I  felt  the  utmost  sympathy  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  in  this  anxious  extremity, 
and  said  as  much  to  Mr.  IMicawber,  who  now  returned  :  adding  that  I  only  wished  I 
had  money  enough,  to  lend  them  the  amount  they  needed.  Mr.  Micawber's  answer 
expressed  the  disturbance  of  his  mind.  He  said,  shaking  hands  with  me,  '  Copperfield, 
\'0u  are  a  true  friend  ;  but  when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  no  man  is  without  a 
friend  who  is  possessed  of  shaving  materials.'  At  this  dreadful  hint  Mrs.  Micawber 
threw  her  arms  round  Mr.  Micawber's  neck  and  entreated  him  to  be  calm.  He  wept ; 
but  so  far  recovered,  almost  immediately,  as  to  ring  the  bell  for  the  waiter,  and  bespeak 
a  hot  kidney  pudding  and  a  plate  of  shrimps  for  breakfast  in  the  morning. 

When  I  took  my  leave  of  them,  they  both  pressed  me  so  much  to  come  and  dine 
before  they  went  away,  that  I  could  not  refuse.  But,  as  I  knew  I  could  not  come  next 
day,  when  I  should  have  a  good  deal  to  prepare  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Micawber  arranged 
that  he  would  call  at  Dr.  Strong's  in  the  course  of  the  morning  (having  a  presentiment 
that  the  remittance  would  arrive  by  that  post),  and  propose  the  day  after,  if  it  would 
suit  me  better.  Accordingly  I  was  called  out  of  school  next  forenoon,  and  found 
]Mr.  Micawber  in  the  parlour  ;  who  had  called  to  say  that  the  dinner  would  take  place 
as  proposed.  When  I  asked  him  if  the  remittance  had  come,  he  pressed  my  hand 
and  departed. 

As  I  was  looking  out  of  the  window  that  same  evening,  it  surprised  me,  and 
made  me  rather  uneasy,  to  see  Mr.  Micawber  and  Uriah  Heep  walk  past,  arm-in-arm  : 
Uriah  humbly  sensible  of  the  honour  that  was  done  him,  and  Mr.  Micawber  taking  a 
bland  delight  in  extending  his  patronage  to  Uriah.  But  I  was  still  more  surprised, 
when  I  went  to  the  little  hotel  next  day  at  the  appointed  dinner-hour,  which  was  four 
o'clock,  to  find,  from  what  Mr.  Micawber  said,  that  he  had  gone  home  with  Uriah, 
and  had  drunk  brandy-and-water  at  Mrs.  Heep's. 

'  And  I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  your  friend 
Heep  is  a  young  fellow  who  might  be  attorney-general.  If  I  had  known  that  young 
man,  at  the  period  when  my  difficulties  came  to  a  crisis,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  I  believe 
my  creditors  would  have  been  a  great  deal  better  managed  than  they  were.' 

I  hardly  understood  how  this  could  have  been,  seeing  that  Mr.  Micawber  had 
paid  them  nothing  at  all  as  it  was  ;  but  I  did  not  like  to  ask.  Neither  did  I  like  to 
say,  that  I  hoped  he  had  not  been  too  communicative  to  Uriah  ;  or  to  inquire  if  they 
had  talked  much  about  me.  I  was  afraid  of  hurting  Mr.  Micawber's  feelings,  or, 
at  all  events,  Mrs.  Micawber's,  she  being  very  sensitive  ;  but  I  was  uncomfortable 
about  it,  too,  and  often  thought  about  it  afterwards. 

We  had  a  beautiful  little  dinner.  Quite  an  elegant  dish  of  fish  ;  the  kidney-end 
of  a  loin  of  veal,  roasted  ;  fried  sausage-meat ;  a  partridge,  and  a  pudding.  There 
was  wine,  and  there  was  strong  ale  ;  and  after  dinner  Mrs.  Micawber  made  us  a  bowl 
of  hot  piuich  with  her  own  hands. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  imcommonly  convivial.  I  never  saw  him  such  good  company. 
He  made  his  face  shine  with  the  punch,  so  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had  been  varnished  all 
over.  He  got  cheerfully  sentimental  about  the  town,  and  proposed  success  to  it ; 
observing  that  Mrs.  Micawber  and  himself  had  been  made  extremely  snug  and  com- 
fortable there,  and  that  he  never  should  forget  the  agreeable  hours  they  had  passed 
in  Canterbury.  He  proposed  me  afterwards  ;  and  he,  and  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  I, 
took  a  review  of  our  past  acquaintance,  in  the  course  of  which,  we  sold  the  property 


SOMKJJODY  TURNS  UP  171 

all  over  again.  Then  I  proposed  Mrs.  Mieawber  ;  or,  at  least,  said,  modestly,  '  If 
you  '11  allow  me,  Mrs.  Mieawber,  I  shall  now  have  the  pleasure  of  drinkirif,'  your  health, 
ma'am.'  On  whieh  Mr.  Mieawber  delivered  an  eulogiuni  on  Mrs.  Micawber's  charaeter, 
and  said  she  had  ever  been  iiis  guide,  i)hilosoi)lier,  and  friend,  and  that  he  would 
reeommend  me,  when  I  came  to  a  niarrying-tirMe  of  life,  to  marry  sueh  another  woman, 
if  such  another  woman  could  be  found. 

As  the  punch  disappeared,  Mr.  Mieawber  became  still  more  friendly  and  convivial. 
Mrs.  Micawber's  spirits  becoming  elevated,  too,  we  sang  '  Auld  Lang  Syne.'  When 
we  came  to  '  Here  's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere,'  we  all  joined  hands  round  the  table  ; 
and  when  we  declared  we  would  '  take  a  right  gude  willie-waught,'  and  hadn't  the  least 
idea  w  hat  it  meant,  we  were  really  affected. 

In  a  word,  I  never  saw  anybody  so  thoroughly  jovial  as  Mr.  Mieawber  was,  down 
to  the  very  last  moment  of  the  evening,  when  I  took  a  hearty  farewell  of  himself  and 
his  amiable  wife.  Consequently,  I  was  not  prepared,  at  seven  o'clock  next  morning, 
to  receive  the  following  comnmnication,  dated  half-past  nine  in  the  evening  ;  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  after  I  had  left  him  : — 

'  My  Dear  Young  Friend, 

'  The  die  is  cast — all  is  over.  Hiding  the  ravages  of  care  with  a  sickly  mask 
of  mirth,  I  have  not  informed  you,  this  evening,  that  there  is  no  hope  of  the  remittance  ! 
Under  these  circumstances,  alike  humiliating  to  endure,  humiliating  to  contemplate, 
and  humiliating  to  relate,  I  have  discharged  the  pecuniary  liability  contracted  at  this 
establishment,  by  giving  a  note  of  hand,  made  payable  fourteen  days  after  date,  at 
my  residence,  Pentonvillc,  London.  Wien  it  becomes  due,  it  will  not  be  taken  up. 
The  result  is  destruction.     The  bolt  is  impending,  and  the  tree  must  fall. 

'  Let  the  wretched  man  who  now  addresses  you,  my  dear  Coppcrfield,  be  a  beacon 
to  you  through  life.  He  writes  with  that  intention,  and  in  that  hope.  If  he  could 
think  himself  of  so  much  use,  one  gleam  of  day  might,  by  possibility,  penetrate  into  the 
cheerless  dungeon  of  his  remaining  existence — though  his  longevity  is,  at  present 
(to  say  the  least  of  it),  extremely  problematical. 

'  This  is  the  last  communication,  my  dear  Coppcrfield,  you  will  ever  receive 

'From 
'The 

'  Beggared  Outcast, 

'  WiLKINS    MiCAWBER.' 

1  was  so  shocked  by  the  contents  of  this  heartrending  letter,  that  I  ran  off 
directly  towards  the  little  hotel  with  the  intention  of  taking  it  on  my  way  to  Doctor 
Strong's,  and  trying  to  soothe  Mr.  Mieawber  with  a  word  of  comfort.  But,  half-way 
there,  I  met  the  London  coach  with  Mr.  and  ]Mrs.  Mieawber  up  behind  ;  Mr.  Mieawber, 
the  very  picture  of  tranquil  enjoyment,  smiling  at  Mrs.  Micawber's  conversation 
eating  walnuts  out  of  a  paper  bag,  with  a  bottle  sticking  out  of  his  breast-pocket. 
As  they  did  not  see  me,  I  thought  it  best,  all  things  considered,  not  to  see  them.  So, 
with  a  great  weight  taken  off  my  mind,  I  turned  into  a  by-street  that  was  the  nearest 
■way  to  school,  and  felt,  upon  the  whole,  relieved  that  they  were  gone  :  though  I  still 
liked  them  very  much,  nevertheless. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

A    RETROSPECT 

MY  school-days  !  The  silent  gliding  on  of  my  existence — the  unseen, 
iinfelt  progress  of  my  life — from  childhood  up  to  youth  !  Let  me  think, 
as  I  look  back  upon  that  flowing  water,  now  a  dry  channel  overgrown 
with  leaves,  whether  there  are  any  marks  along  its  course,  by  which  I 
can  remember  how  it  ran. 

A  moment,  and  I  occupy  my  place  in  the  cathedral,  where  we  all  went  together, 
every  Sunday  morning,  assembling  first  at  school  for  that  purpose.  The  earthy  smell, 
the  sunless  air,  the  sensation  of  the  world  being  shut  out,  the  resounding  of  the  organ 
through  the  black  and  white  arched  galleries  and  aisles,  are  wings  that  take  me  back, 
and  hold  me  hovering  above  those  days,  in  a  half-sleeping  and  half-waking  dream. 

I  am  not  the  last  boy  in  the  school.  I  have  risen,  in  a  few  months,  over  several 
heads.  But  the  first  boy  seems  to  me  a  mighty  creature,  dwelling  afar  off,  whose 
giddy  height  is  unattainable.  Agnes  says  '  No,'  but  I  say  '  Yes,'  and  tell  her  that  she 
little  thinks  what  stores  of  knowledge  have  been  mastered  by  the  wonderful  being,  at 
whose  place  she  thinks  I,  even  I,  weak  aspirant,  may  arrive  in  time.  He  is  not  my 
private  friend  and  public  patron,  as  Steerforth  was  ;  but  I  hold  him  in  a  reverential 
respect.  I  chiefly  wonder  what  he  '11  be,  when  he  leaves  Doctor  Strong's,  and  what 
mankind  will  do  to  maintain  any  place  against  him. 

But  who  is  this  that  breaks  upon  me  ?     This  is  Miss  Shepherd,  whom  I  love. 

Miss  Shepherd  is  a  boarder  at  the  Misses  Nettingalls'  establishment.  I  adore 
Miss  Shepherd.  She  is  a  little  girl,  in  a  spencer,  with  a  round  face  and  curly  flaxen 
hair.  The  Misses  Nettingalls'  young  ladies  come  to  the  cathedral  too.  I  cannot  look 
upon  my  book,  for  I  must  look  upon  ]\Iiss  Shepherd.  When  the  choristers  chaunt,  I 
hear  Miss  Shepherd.  In  the  service  I  mentally  insert  Miss  Shepherd's  name  ;  I  put 
her  in  among  the  Royal  Family.  At  home,  in  my  own  room,  I  am  sometimes  moved 
to  cry  out,  '  Oh,  Miss  Shepherd  !  '  in  a  transport  of  love. 

For  some  time,  I  am  doubtful  of  Miss  Shepherd's  feelings,  but,  at  length.  Fate 
being  propitious,  we  meet  at  the  dancing-school.  I  have  Miss  Shepherd  for  my  partner. 
I  touch  Miss  Shepherd's  glove,  and  feel  a  thrill  go  up  the  right  arm  of  my  jacket,  and 
come  out  at  my  hair.  I  say  nothing  tender  to  Miss  Shepherd,  but  we  understand 
each  other.     Miss  Shepherd  and  myself  live  but  to  be  united. 

Why  do  I  secretly  give  Miss  Shepherd  twelve  Brazil  nuts  for  a  present,  I  wonder  ? 
They  are  not  expressive  of  affection,  they  are  difficult  to  pack  into  a  parcel  of  any 
regular  shape,  they  are  hard  to  crack,  even  in  room-doors,  and  they  are  oily  when 
cracked  ;  yet  I  feel  that  they  are  appropriate  to  Miss  Shepherd.  Soft,  seedy  biscuits, 
also,  I  bestow  upon  Miss  Shepherd  ;  and  oranges  innumerable.  Once,  I  kiss  Miss 
Shepherd  in  the  cloak-room.  Ecstasy  !  What  are  my  agony  and  indignation 
next  day,  when  I  hear  a  flying  rumour  that  the  Misses  Nettingall  have  stood  Miss 
Shepherd  in  the  stocks  for  turning  in  her  toes  ! 

Miss  Shepherd  being  the  one  pervading  theme  and  vision  of  my  life,  how  do 
I  ever  come  to  break  with  her  ?     I  can't  conceive.     And  yet  a  coolness  grows  between 


A  KKTKOSI'ECT  173 

Miss  Slieplicrd  and  myself.  Wliispers  reacli  me  of  Miss  Siiepherd  iiaving  said  slie 
wished  I  wouldn't  stare  so,  and  having  avowed  a  preference  for  Master  Jones — for 
Jones  I  a  boy  of  no  merit  whatever  !  The  f;ulf  between  me  and  Miss  Shepherd  widens. 
At  last,  one  day,  I  meet  the  Misses  Netlin;,'alls'  establishment  out  walking.  Miss 
Shepherd  makes  a  face  as  she  goes  by,  and  laughs  to  her  companion.  All  is  over. 
The  devotion  of  a  life — it  seems  a  life,  it  is  all  the  same — is  at  an  end  ;  Miss  Shepherd 
comes  out  of  the  morning  service,  and  the  Royal  Family  know  her  no  more. 

I  am  higher  in  the  school,  and  no  one  breaks  my  peace.  I  am  not  at  all  polite 
now,  to  the  Misses  Nettingalls'  young  ladies,  and  shouldn't  dote  on  any  of  them,  it 
they  were  twice  us  many  and  twenty  times  as  beautiful.  I  think  the  dancing-school 
a  tiresome  affair,  and  wonder  why  the  girls  can't  dance  by  themselves  and  leave  us 
alone.  I  am  growing  great  in  Latin  verses,  and  neglect  the  laces  of  my  boots.  Doctor 
Strong  refers  to  me  in  public  as  a  promising  young  scholar.  Mr.  Diek  is  wild  with 
joy,  and  my  aunt  remits  me  a  guinea  by  the  next  post. 

The  shade  of  a  young  butcher  rises,  like  the  apparition  of  an  armed  head  in 
Macbeth.  Who  is  this  young  butcher  ?  He  is  the  terror  of  the  youth  of  Canterbury. 
There  is  a  vague  belief  abroad,  that  the  beef  suet  with  which  he  anoints  his  hair  gives 
him  unnatural  strength,  and  that  he  is  a  match  for  a  man.  He  is  a  broad-faced,  bull- 
necked  young  butcher,  with  rough  red  cheeks,  an  ill-conditioned  mind,  and  an  injurious 
tongue.  His  main  use  of  this  tongue,  is,  to  disparage  Doctor  Strong's  young  gentle- 
men. He  says,  publicly,  that  if  they  want  anything  he  '11  give  it  'em.  He  names 
individuals  among  them  (myself  included),  whom  he  could  undertake  to  settle  with 
one  hand,  and  the  other  tied  behind  him.  He  waylays  the  smaller  boys  to  punch  their 
unprotected  heads,  and  calls  challenges  after  me  in  the  open  streets.  For  these 
sufficient  reasons  I  resolve  to  fight  the  butcher. 

It  is  a  summer  evening,  down  in  a  green  hollow,  at  the  comer  of  a  wall.  I  meet 
the  butcher  by  appointment.  I  am  attended  by  a  select  body  of  our  boys  ;  the 
butcher,  by  two  other  butchers,  a  young  publican,  and  a  sweep.  The  preliminaries 
are  adjusted,  and  the  butcher  and  myself  stand  face  to  face.  In  a  moment  the  butcher 
lights  ten  thousand  candles  out  of  my  left  eyebrow.  In  another  moment,  I  don't 
know  where  the  wall  is,  or  where  I  am,  or  where  anybody  is.  I  hardly  know  which  is 
myself  and  which  the  butcher,  we  are  always  in  such  a  tangle  and  tussle,  knocking 
about  upon  the  trodden  grass.  Sometimes  I  see  the  butcher,  bloody  but  confident ; 
sometimes  I  see  nothing,  and  sit  gasping  on  my  second's  knee  ;  sometimes  I  go  in  at 
the  butcher  madly,  and  cut  my  knuckles  open  against  his  face,  without  appearing  to 
discompose  him  at  all.  At  last  I  awake,  very  queer  about  the  head,  as  from  a  giddy 
sleep,  and  see  the  butcher  walking  off,  congratulated  by  the  two  other  butchers  and 
the  sweep  and  publican,  and  putting  on  his  coat  as  he  goes  ;  from  which  I  augur, 
justly,  that  the  victory  is  his. 

I  am  taken  home  in  a  sad  plight,  and  I  have  beef-steaks  put  to  my  eyes,  and  am 
rubbed  with  vinegar  and  brandy,  and  find  a  great  white  puffy  place  bursting  out  on 
my  upper  lip,  which  swells  immoderately.  For  three  or  four  days  I  remain  at  home, 
a  very  ill-looking  subject,  with  a  green  shade  over  my  eyes  ;  and  I  should  be  very 
dull,  but  that  Agnes  is  a  sister  to  me,  and  condoles  with  me,  and  reads  to  me,  and 
makes  the  time  light  and  happy.  Agnes  has  my  confidence  completely,  always  ; 
I  tell  her  all  about  the  butcher,  and  the  wrongs  he  has  heaped  upon  me  ;  she  thinks 
I  couldn't  have  done  otherwise  than  fight  the  butcher,  while  she  shrinks  and  trembles 
at  my  having  fought  him. 


174  DAVID  COPPEKFIELD 

Time  has  stolen  on  unobserved,  for  Adams  is  not  the  head-boy  in  the  days  that 
are  come  now,  nor  has  he  been  this  many  and  many  a  day.  Adams  has  left  the  school 
so  long,  that  when  he  comes  back,  on  a  visit  to  Doctor  Strong,  there  are  not  many 
there,  besides  myself,  who  know  him.  Adams  is  going  to  be  called  to  the  bar  almost 
directly,  and  is  to  be  an  advocate,  and  to  wear  a  wig.  I  am  surprised  to  find  him 
a  meeker  man  that  I  had  thought,  and  less  imposing  in  appearance.  He  has  not 
staggered  the  world  yet,  either  ;  for  it  goes  on  (as  well  as  I  can  make  out)  pretty  much 
the  same  as  if  he  had  never  joined  it. 

A  blank,  through  which  the  warriors  of  poetry  and  history  march  on  in  stately 
hosts  that  seem  to  have  no  end — and  what  comes  next  !  /  am  the  head-boy,  now  ! 
I  look  down  on  the  line  of  boys  below  me,  with  a  condescending  interest  in  such  of 
them  as  bring  to  my  mind  the  boy  I  was  myself,  when  I  first  came  there.  That  little 
fellow  seems  to  be  no  part  of  me  ;  I  remember  him  as  something  left  behind  upon  the 
road  of  life — as  something  I  have  passed,  rather  than  have  actually  been — and  almost 
think  of  him  as  of  some  one  else. 

And  the  little  girl  I  saw  on  that  first  day  at  Mr.  Wickfield's,  where  is  she  ?  Gone 
also.  In  her  stead,  the  perfect  likeness  of  the  picture,  a  child  likeness  no  more,  moves 
about  the  house  ;  and  Agnes,  my  sweet  sister,  as  I  call  her  in  my  thoughts,  my 
counsellor  and  friend,  the  better  angel  of  the  lives  of  all  who  come  within  her  calm, 
good,  self-denying  influence,  is  quite  a  woman. 

What  other  changes  have  come  upon  me,  besides  the  changes  in  my  growth  and 
looks,  and  in  the  knowledge  I  have  garnered  all  this  while  ?  I  wear  a  gold  watch  and 
chain,  a  ring  upon  my  little  finger,  and  a  long-tailed  coat ;  and  I  use  a  great  deal 
of  bear's  grease — which,  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  ring,  looks  bad.  Am  I  in  love 
again  ?     I  am.     I  worship  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins. 

The  eldest  Miss  Larkins  is  not  a  little  girl.  She  is  a  tall,  dark,  black-eyed,  fine 
figure  of  a  woman.  The  eldest  Miss  Larkins  is  not  a  chicken  ;  for  the  youngest  Wiss 
Larkins  is  not  that,  and  the  eldest  must  be  three  or  four  years  older.  Perhaps  the 
eldest  Miss  Larkins  may  be  about  thirty.     My  passion  for  her  is  beyond  all  bounds. 

The  eldest  Miss  Larkins  knows  officers.  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  bear.  I  see  them 
speaking  to  her  in  the  street.  I  see  them  cross  the  way  to  meet  her,  when  her  bonnet 
(she  has  a  bright  taste  in  bonnets)  is  seen  coming  down  the  pavement,  accompanied 
by  her  sister's  bonnet.  She  laughs  and  talks,  and  seems  to  like  it.  I  spend  a  good 
deal  of  my  own  spare  time  in  walking  up  and  down  to  meet  her.  If  I  can  bow  to  her 
once  in  the  day  (I  know  her  to  bow  to,  knowing  Mr.  Larkins),  I  am  happier.  I  deserve 
a  bow  now  and  then.  The  raging  agonies  I  suffer  on  the  night  of  the  Race  Ball,  where 
I  know  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  will  be  dancing  with  the  military,  ought  to  have  some 
compensation,  if  there  be  even-handed  justice  in  the  world. 

My  passion  takes  away  my  appetite,  and  makes  me  wear  my  newest  silk  necker- 
chief continually.  I  have  no  relief  but  in  putting  on  my  best  clothes,  and  having  my 
boots  cleaned  over  and  over  again.  I  seem,  then,  to  be  worthier  of  the  eldest  Miss 
Larkins.  Everything  that  belongs  to  her,  or  is  connected  with  her,  is  precious  to  me. 
Mr.  Larkins  (a  gruff  old  gentleman  with  a  double  chin,  and  one  of  his  eyes  immoveable 
in  his  head)  is  fraught  with  interest  to  me.  ^Vhen  I  can't  meet  his  daughter,  I  go  where 
I  am  likely  to  meet  him.  To  say,  '  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Larkins  ?  Are  the  young 
ladies  and  all  the  family  quite  well  ?  '  seems  so  pointed,  that  I  blush. 

I  think  continually  about  my  age.  Say  I  am  seventeen,  and  say  that  seventeen 
is  young  for  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins,  what  of  that  ?     Besides,  I  shall  be  one-and- 


A  RETltOSFEOT  175 

twenty  in  no  time  almost.  I  regularly  take  walks  outside  Mr.  Larkins's  house  in  the 
evening,  though  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see  the  odicers  go  in,  or  to  Iioar  theni  i\\> 
in  the  drawing-room,  where  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  jiiays  the  harp.  I  even  walk,  on 
two  or  three  occasions,  in  a  sickly,  spoony  manner,  round  and  round  the  house  after 
the  family  are  gone  to  bed,  wondering  which  is  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins's  chamber 
(and  pitching,  I  dare  say  now,  on  Mr.  Larkins's  instead)  ;  wishing  that  a  fire  would 
Ijurst  out ;  that  the  assembled  crowd  would  stand  af)i)alled  ;  that  I,  dashing  through 
them  with  a  ladder,  might  rear  it  against  her  window,  save  her  in  my  arms,  go  back 
for  something  she  had  left  behind,  and  perish  in  the  flames.  For  I  am  generally  dis- 
interested in  my  love,  and  think  I  could  be  content  to  inake  a  figure  before  Miss  Larkins, 
and  expire.  Generally,  but  not  always.  Sometimes  brighter  visions  rise  before' me. 
When  I  dress  (the  occupation  of  two  hours),  for  a  great  ball  given  at  the  Larkins's 
(the  anticipation  of  three  weeks),  I  indulge  my  fancy  with  pleasing  images.  I  picture 
myself  taking  courage  to  make  a  declaration  to  Miss  Larkins.  I  picture  Miss  Larkins 
sinking  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  and  saying,  '  Oh,  Mr.  Copperfield,  can  I  believe  my 
ears  !  '  I  picture  Mr.  Larkins  waiting  on  me  next  morning,  and  saying,  '  My  dear 
Copperfield,  my  daughter  has  told  me  all.  Youth  is  no  objection.  Here  are  twenty 
thousand  pounds.  Be  happy  !  '  I  picture  my  aunt  relenting,  and  blessing  us  ;  and 
Mr.  Dick  and  Doctor  Strong  being  present  at  the  marriage  ceremony.  I  am  a  sensible 
fellow,  I  believe — I  believe,  on  looking  back,  I  mean — and  modest  I  am  sure  ;  but  all 
this  goes  on  notwithstanding. 

I  repair  to  the  enchanted  house,  where  there  are  lights,  chattering,  music,  flowers, 
officers  (I  am  sorry  to  see),  and  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins,  a  blaze  of  l)eauty.  She  is 
dressed  in  blue,  with  blue  flowers  in  her  hair — forget-me-nots.  As  if  she  had  any  need 
to  wear  forget-me-nots  !  It  is  the  first  really  grown-up  party  that  I  have  ever  been 
invited  to,  and  I  am  a  little  uncomfortable  ;  for  I  appear  not  to  belong  to  anybody, 
and  nobody  appears  to  have  anything  to  say  to  me,  except  Mr.  Larkins,  who  asks  me 
how  my  school-fellows  are,  which  he  needn't  do,  as  I  have  not  come  there  to  be  insulted. 

But  after  I  have  stood  in  the  doorway  for  some  time,  and  feasted  my  eyes  upon 
the  goddess  of  my  heart,  she  approaches  me — she,  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  ! — and  asks 
me  pleasantly,  if  I  dance  ? 

I  stammer,  with  a  bow,  '  With  you,  Miss  Larkins.' 

'  With  no  one  else  ?  '  inquires  Miss  Larkins. 

'  I  should  have  no  pleasure  in  dancing  with  any  one  else.' 

Miss  Larkins  laughs  and  blushes  (or  I  think  she  blushes),  and  says,  '  Next  time 
but  one,  I  shall  be  very  glad.' 

The  time  arrives.  '  It  is  a  waltz,  I  think,'  Miss  Larkins  doubtfully  observes,  when 
I  present  myself.     '  Do  you  waltz  ?     If  not.  Captain  Bailey ' 

But  I  do  waltz  (pretty  well,  too,  as  it  happens),  and  I  take  Miss  Larkins  out.  I 
take  her  sternly  from  the  side  of  Captain  Bailey.  He  is  wretched,  I  have  no  doubt ; 
but  he  is  nothing  to  me.  I  have  been  wretched,  too.  I  waltz  with  the  eldest  Miss 
Larkins  !  I  don't  know  where,  among  whom,  or  how  long.  I  only  know  that  I  s^vim 
about  in  space,  with  a  blue  angel,  in  a  state  of  blissful  delirium,  until  I  find  myself  alone 
with  her  in  a  little  room,  resting  on  a  sofa.  She  admires  a  flower  (pink  camellia  japonica, 
price  half-a-crown),  in  my  button-hole.     I  give  it  her,  and  say — 

'  I  ask  an  inestimable  price  for  it,  Miss  Larkins.' 

'  Indeed  !     What  is  that  ?  '  returns  Miss  Larkins. 

'  A  flower  of  yours,  that  I  may  treasure  it  as  a  miser  does  gold.' 


176  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  're  a  bold  boy,'  says  Miss  Larkins.     '  There.' 

She  gives  it  me,  not  displeased  ;  and  I  put  it  to  my  lips,  and  then  into  my 
breast.  Miss  Larkins,  laughing,  draws  her  hand  through  my  arm,  and  says,  '  Now 
take  me  back  to  Captain  Bailey.' 

I  am  lost  in  the  recollection  of  this  delicious  interview,  and  the  waltz,  when  she 
comes  to  me  again,  with  a  plain  elderly  gentleman,  who  has  been  playing  whist  all  night, 
upon  her  arm,  and  says — 

'  Oh,  here  is  my  bold  friend.     Mr.  Chestle  wants  to  know  you,  Mr.  Copperfield.' 

I  feel  at  once  that  he  is  a  friend  of  the  family,  and  am  much  gratified. 

'  I  admire  your  taste,  sir,'  says  Mr.  Chestle.  '  It  does  you  credit.  I  suppose  you 
don't  take  much  interest  in  hops  ;  but  I  am  a  pretty  large  grower  myself  ;  and  if  you 
ever  like  to  come  over  to  our  neighbourhood — neighbourhood  of  Ashford — and  take 
a  run  about  our  place,  we  shall  be  glad  for  you  to  stop  as  long  as  you  like.' 

I  thank  Mr.  Chestle  warmly,  and  shake  hands.  I  think  I  am  in  a  happy  dream. 
I  waltz  with  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins  once  again.  She  says  I  waltz  so  well !  I  go  home 
in  a  state  of  unspeakable  bliss,  and  waltz  in  imagination,  all  night  long,  with  my  arm 
round  the  blue  waist  of  my  dear  divinity.  For  some  days  afterwards,  I  am  lost  in 
rapturous  reflections  ;  but  I  neither  see  her  in  the  street,  nor  when  I  call.  I  am 
imperfectly  consoled  for  this  disappointment  by  the  sacred  pledge,  the  perished  flower. 

'  Trotwood,'  says  Agnes,  one  day  after  dinner.  '  Who  do  j^ou  think  is  going  to 
be  married  to-morrow  ?     Some  one  you  admire.' 

'  Not  you,  I  suppose,  Agnes  ?  ' 

'  Not  me  !  '  raising  her  cheerful  face  from  the  music  she  is  copying.  '  Do  you 
hear  him,  papa  ? — The  eldest  Miss  Larkins.' 

'  To — to  Captain  Bailey  ?  '  I  have  just  enough  power  to  ask. 

'  No  ;   to  no  Captain.     To  Mr.  Chestle,  a  hop-grower.' 

I  am  terribly  dejected  for  about  a  week  or  two.  I  take  off  my  ring,  I  wear  my 
worst  clothes,  I  use  no  bear's  grease,  and  I  frequently  lament  over  the  late  Miss  Larkins's 
faded  flower.  Being,  by  that  time,  rather  tired  of  this  kind  of  life,  and  having  received 
new  provocation  from  the  butcher,  I  throw  the  flower  away,  go  out  with  the  butcher, 
and  gloriously  defeat  him. 

This,  and  the  resumption  of  my  ring,  as  well  as  of  the  bear's  grease  in  moderation, 
are  the  last  marks  I  can  discern,  now,  in  my  progress  to  seventeen. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

I    LOOK    ABOUT    ME,    AND    MAKE   A    DISCOVERY 

I  AM  doubtful  whether  I  was  at  heart  glad  or  sorry,  when  my  school-days  drew 
to  an  end,  and  the  time  came  for  my  leaving  Doctor  Strong's.  I  had  been 
very  happy  there,  I  had  a  great  attachment  for  the  Doctor,  and  I  was  eminent 
and  distinguished  in  that  little  world.  For  these  reasons  I  was  sorry  to  go  ; 
but  for  other  reasons,  unsubstantial  enough,  I  was  glad.  Misty  ideas  of  being  a 
young  man  at  my  own  disposal,  of  the  importance  attaching  to  a  young  man  at  his 
own  disposal,  of  the  wonderful  things  to  be  seen  and  done  by  that  magnificent  animal, 
and  the  wonderful  effects  he  could  not  fail  to  make  upon  society,  lured  me  away. 


I  LOOK  ABOUT  ME,  AND  MAKE  A  DISCOVERY      177 

So  powerful  were  these  visionary  considerations  in  my  Ijoyish  mind,  that  I  seem, 
according,'  to  my  present  way  of  thinlving,  to  have  left  school  without  natural  regret. 
The  sejjaration  has  not  made  the  impression  on  me,  that  other  separations  have.  I 
try  in  vain  to  recall  how  1  felt  about  it,  and  what  its  circumstances  were  ;  hut  it 
is  not  momentous  in  my  recollection.  I  suppose  the  opening  prospect  confused  me. 
I  know  that  my  juvenile  exj)erienoes  went  for  little  or  nothing  then  ;  and  that  life  was 
more  like  a  great  fairy  story,  which  I  was  just  about  to  begin  to  read,  tlian  anything  else. 
My  aunt  and  I  had  held  many  grave  deliberations  on  the  calling  to  which  I  should 
be  devoted.  For  a  year  or  more  I  had  endeavoured  to  find  a  satisfactory  answer  to 
her  often-repeated  question,  '  What  1  would  like  to  be  ?  '  But  1  had  no  particular 
liking,  that  I  could  discover,  for  anything.  If  I  could  have  been  inspired  with  a 
knowledge  of  the  science  of  navigation,  taken  the  command  of  a  fast-sailing  expedition, 
and  gone  round  the  world  on  a  triumphant  voyage  of  discovery,  I  think  I  might  have 
considered  myself  completely  suited.  But  in  the  absence  of  any  such  miraculous 
provision,  my  desire  was  to  apply  myself  to  some  pursuit  that  would  not  lie  too  heavily 
upon  her  purse  ;   and  to  do  my  duty  in  it,  whatever  it  might  be. 

Mr.  Dick  had  regularly  assisted  at  our  councils,  with  a  meditative  and  sage 
demeanour.  He  never  made  a  suggestion  but  once  ;  and  on  that  occasion  (I  don't 
know  what  put  it  in  his  head),  he  suddenly  proposed  that  I  should  be  '  a  brazier.' 
My  aunt  received  this  proposal  so  very  ungraciously,  that  he  never  ventured  on  a 
second  ;  but  ever  afterwards  confined  himself  to  looking  watchfully  at  her  for  her 
suggestions,  and  rattling  his  money. 

'  Trot,  I  tell  you  what,  my  dear,'  said  my  aunt,  one  morning  in  the  Christmas 
season  when  I  left  school  ;  '  as  this  knotty  point  is  still  unsettled,  and  as  we  must 
not  make  a  mistake  in  our  decision  if  we  can  help  it,  I  think  we  had  better  take  a 
little  breathing-time.  In  the  meanwhile,  you  must  try  to  look  at  it  from  a  new  point 
of  view,  and  not  as  a  schoolboy.' 
'  I  will,  aunt.' 

'  It  has  occurred  to  me,'  pursued  my  aunt,  '  that  a  little  change,  and  a  glimpse  of 
life  out  of  doors,  may  be  useful,  in  helping  you  to  know  your  own  mind,  and  form  a 
cooler  judgment.  Suppose  you  were  to  take  a  little  journey  now.  Suppose  you  were 
to  go  down  into  the  old  part  of  the  country  again,  for  instance,  and  see  that — that 
out-of-the-way  woman  with  the  savagest  of  names,'  said  my  aunt,  rubbing  her  nose, 
for  she  could  never  thoroughly  forgive  Peggotty  for  being  so  called. 
'  Of  all  things  in  the  world,  aunt,  I  should  like  it  best  !  ' 

'  Well,'  said  my  aunt,  '  that 's  lucky,  for  I  should  like  it  too.     But  it 's  natural 
and  rational  that  you  should  like  it.     And  I  am  very  well  persuaded  that  whatever 
you  do,  Trot,  will  always  be  natural  and  rational.' 
'  I  hope  so,  aunt.' 

'  Your  sister,  Betsey  Trotwood,'  said  my  aunt,  '  would  have  been  as  natural  and 
rational  a  girl  as  ever  breathed.  You  '11  be  worthy  of  her,  won't  you  ?  ' 
'  I  hope  I  shall  be  worthy  of  you,  aunt.  That  will  be  enough  for  me.' 
'  It 's  a  mercy  that  poor  dear  baby  of  a  mother  of  yours  didn't  live,'  said  my 
aunt,  looking  at  me  approvingly,  '  or  she  'd  have  been  so  vain  of  her  boy  by  this  time, 
that  her  soft  little  head  would  have  been  completely  turned,  if  there  was  anything 
of  it  left  to  turn.'  (My  aunt  always  excused  any  weakness  of  her  own  in  my  behalf, 
by  transferring  it  in  this  way  to  my  poor  mother.)  '  Bless  me,  Trotwood,  how  you  do 
remind  me  of  her  !  ' 


178  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Pleasantly,  I  hope,  aunt  ?  '  said  I. 

'  He  's  as  like  her,  Dick,'  said  my  aunt,  emphatically,  '  he  's  as  like  her,  as  she 
was  that  afternoon,  before  she  began  to  fret.  Bless  my  heart,  he  's  as  like  her,  as  he 
can  look  at  me  out  of  his  two  eyes  !  ' 

'  Is  he,  indeed  ?  '  said  Mr.  Dick. 

'  And  he  's  like  David,  too,'  said  my  aimt,  decisively. 

'  He  is  very  like  David  !  '  said  Mr.  Dick. 

'  But  what  I  want  you  to  be.  Trot,'  resumed  my  aunt,  ' — I  don't  mean 
physically,  but  morally  ;  you  are  very  well  physically — is,  a  firm  fellow.  A  fine 
firm  fellow,  with  a  will  of  your  own.  With  resolution,'  said  my  aunt,  shaking  her 
cap  at  me,  and  clenching  her  hand.  '  With  determination.  With  character,  Trot. 
With  strength  of  character  that  is  not  to  be  influenced,  except  on  good  reason, 
by  anybody,  or  by  anything.  That  's  what  I  want  you  to  be.  That 's  what 
your  father  and  mother  might  both  have  been.  Heaven  knows,  and  been  the 
better  for  it.' 

I  intimated  that  I  hoped  I  should  be  what  she  described. 

'  That  you  may  begin,  in  a  small  way,  to  have  a  reliance  upon  yourself,  and  to  act 
for  yourself,'  said  my  aunt,  '  I  shall  send  you  upon  your  trip,  alone.  I  did  think,  once, 
of  Mr.  Dick's  going  with  you  ;  but,  on  second  thoughts,  I  shall  keep  him  to  take  care 
of  me.' 

Mr.  Dick,  for  a  moment,  looked  a  little  disappointed  ;  until  the  honour  and 
dignity  of  having  to  take  care  of  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,  restored 
the  sunshine  to  his  face. 

'  Besides,'  said  my  aunt,  '  there  's  the  Memorial.' 

'  Oh,  certainly,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  in  a  hurry,  '  I  intend,  Trotwood,  to  get  that  done 
immediately — it  really  must  be  done  immediately  !  And  then  it  will  go  in,  you 
know — and  then — ,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  after  checking  himself,  and  pausing  a  long  time, 
'  there  '11  be  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  !  ' 

In  pursuance  of  my  aimt's  kind  scheme,  I  was  shortly  afterwards  fitted  out  with 
a  handsome  purse  of  money,  and  a  portmanteau,  and  tenderly  dismissed  upon  my 
expedition.  At  parting,  my  aunt  gave  me  some  good  advice,  and  a  good  many  kisses  ; 
and  said  that  as  her  object  was  that  I  should  look  about  me,  and  should  think  a  little, 
she  would  recommend  me  to  stay  a  few  days  in  London,  if  I  liked  it,  either  on  my 
way  down  into  Suffolk,  or  in  coming  back.  In  a  word,  I  was  at  liberty  to  do  what  I 
would,  for  three  weeks  or  a  month  :  and  no  other  conditions  were  imposed  upon  my 
freedom  than  the  before-mentioned  thinking  and  looking  about  me,  and  a  pledge  to 
write  three  times  a  week  and  faithfully  report  myself. 

I  went  to  Canterbury  first,  that  I  might  take  leave  of  Agnes  and  Mr.  Wickfield 
(my  old  room  in  whose  house  I  had  not  yet  relinquished),  and  also  of  the  good  Doctor. 
Agnes  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  told  me  that  the  house  had  not  been  like  itself 
since  I  had  left  it. 

'  I  am  sure  I  am  not  like  myself  when  I  am  away,'  said  I.  '  I  seem  to  want  my 
right  hand,  when  I  miss  you.  Though  that 's  not  saying  much  ;  for  there  's  no  head  in 
my  right  hand,  and  no  heart.  Every  one  who  knows  you,  consults  with  you,  and  is 
guided  by  you,  Agnes.' 

'  Every  one  who  knows  me,  spoils  me,  I  believe,'  she  answered,  smiling. 

'  No.  It 's  because  you  are  like  no  one  else.  You  are  so  good,  and  so  sweet- 
tempered.     You  have  such  a  gentle  nature,  and  you  are  always  right.' 


T   l/)OK  ABOUT  Mf],  AND  MAKE  A  DISCOVEIiY      179 

'  You  talk,'  said  Af^nes,  hrcakirifr  into  a  pleasant  laugh,  as  she  sat  at  work,  '  as  if 
I  were  the  late  Miss  Larkins.' 

'  Come  !  It  's  not  fair  to  abuse  my  confidenee,'  I  answered,  reddening  at  the 
recollection  of  my  blue  enslaver.  '  But  I  shall  oonlide  in  you,  just  the  same,  Agnes. 
I  can  never  grow  out  of  that.  Whenever  I  fail  into  troul)le,  or  fall  in  love,  I  shall 
always  tell  you,  if  you  '11  let  me — -even  when  I  come  to  fail  in  love  in  earnest.' 

'  Why,  you  have  always  been  in  earnest  !  '  said  Agnes,  laughing  again. 

'  Oh  !  that  was  as  a  child,  or  a  schoolboy,'  said  I,  laughing  in  my  turn,  not 
without  being  a  little  shamefaced.  '  Times  are  altering  now,  and  I  suppose  I  shall  l>e 
in  a  terrible  state  of  earnestness  one  day  or  other.  My  wonder  is,  that  you  are  not 
in  earnest  yourself,  by  this  time,  Agnes.' 

Agnes  laughed  again,  and  shook  her  head. 

'  Oh,  I  know  you  are  not  !  '  said  I,  '  because  if  you  had  been,  you  would  have  told 
me.  Or  at  least,'  for  I  saw  a  faint  blush  in  her  face,  '  you  would  have  let  me  find 
it  out  for  myself.  But  there  is  no  one  that  I  know  of,  who  deserves  to  love  you,  Agnes. 
Some  one  of  a  nobler  character,  and  more  worthy  altogether  than  any  one  I  have  ever 
seen  here,  must  rise  up,  before  I  give  my  consent.  In  the  time  to  come,  I  shall  liave 
a  wary  eye  on  all  admirers  ;  and  shall  exact  a  great  deal  from  the  successful  one,  I 
assure  you.' 

We  had  gone  on,  so  far,  in  a  mixture  of  confidential  jest  and  earnest,  that  had 
long  grown  naturally  out  of  our  familiar  relations,  begun  as  mere  children.  But  Agnes, 
now  suddenly  lifting  up  her  eyes  to  mine,  and  speaking  in  a  different  manner,  said — 

'  Trotwood,  there  is  something  that  I  want  to  ask  you,  and  that  I  may  not  have 
another  opportunity  of  asking  for  a  long  time,  perhaps.  Something  I  would  ask,  I 
think,  of  no  one  else.     Have  you  observed  any  gradual  alteration  in  papa  ?  ' 

I  had  observed  it,  and  had  often  wondered  whether  she  had  too.  I  must  have 
shown  as  much,  now,  in  my  face  ;  for  her  eyes  were  in  a  moment  cast  down,  and  I  saw 
tears  in  them. 

'  Tell  me  what  it  is,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

'  I  think — shall  I  be  quite  plain,  Agnes,  liking  him  so  much  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  she  said. 

'  I  think  he  does  himself  no  good  by  the  habit  that  has  increased  upon  him  since 
I  first  came  here.     He  is  often  very  nervous,  or  I  fancy  so.' 

'  It  is  not  fancy,'  said  Agnes,  shaking  her  head. 

'  His  hand  trembles,  his  speech  is  not  plain,  and  his  eyes  look  wild.  I  have 
remarked  that  at  those  times,  and  when  he  is  least  like  himself,  he  is  most  certain  to  be 
wanted  on  some  business.' 

'  By  Uriah,'  said  Agnes. 

'  Yes  ;  and  the  sense  of  being  unfit  for  it.  or  of  not  having  understood  it,  or  of 
having  shown  his  condition  in  spite  of  himself,  seems  to  make  him  so  uneasy,  that 
next  day  he  is  worse,  and  next  day  worse,  and  so  he  becomes  jaded  and  haggard. 
Do  not  be  alarmed  by  what  I  say,  Agnes,  but  in  this  state  I  saw  him.  only  the  other 
evening,  lay  down  his  head  upon  his  desk,  and  shed  tears  like  a  child.' 

Her  hand  passed  softly  before  my  lips  while  I  was  yet  speaking,  and  in  a  moment 
she  had  met  her  father  at  the  door  of  the  room,  and  was  hanging  on  his  shoulder. 
The  expression  of  her  face,  as  they  both  looked  towards  me,  I  felt  to  be  very  touching. 
There  was  such  deep  fondness  for  him,  and  gratitude  to  him  for  all  his  love  and  care, 
in  her  beautiful  look  ;   and  there  was  such  a  fervent  appeal  to  me  to  deal  tenderK-  by 


180  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

him,  even  in  my  inmost  thoughts,  and  to  let  no  harsh  construction  find  any  place 
against  him  ;  she  was,  at  once,  so  proud  of  him  and  devoted  to  him,  yet  so  com- 
passionate and  sorry,  and  so  rehant  upon  me  to  be  so,  too  ;  that  nothing  she  could 
have  said  would  have  expressed  more  to  me,  or  moved  me  more. 

We  were  to  drink  tea  at  the  Doctor's.  We  went  there  at  the  usual  hour ;  and 
round  the  study-fireside  found  the  Doctor,  and  his  young  wife,  and  her  mother.  The 
Doctor,  who  made  as  much  of  my  going  away  as  if  I  were  going  to  China,  received  me 
as  an  honoured  guest ;  and  called  for  a  log  of  wood  to  be  thrown  on  the  fire,  that  he 
might  see  the  face  of  his  old  pupil  reddening  in  the  blaze. 

'  I  shall  not  see  many  more  new  faces  in  Trotwood's  stead,  Wickfield,'  said  the 
Doctor,  warming  his  hands  ;  '  I  am  getting  lazy,  and  want  ease.  I  shall  relinquish  all 
my  young  people  in  another  six  months,  and  lead  a  quieter  life.' 

'  You  have  said  so,  any  time  these  ten  years.  Doctor,'  Mr.  Wickfield  answered. 

'  But  now  I  mean  to  do  it,'  returned  the  Doctor.  '  My  first  master  will  succeed 
me — I  am  in  earnest  at  last — so  you  '11  soon  have  to  arrange  our  contracts,  and  to 
bind  us  firmly  to  them,  like  a  couple  of  knaves.' 

'  And  to  take  care,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  '  that  you  're  not  imposed  on,  eh  ?  As 
you  certainly  would  be,  in  any  contract  you  should  make  for  yourself.  Well  !  I  am 
ready.     There  are  worse  tasks  than  that,  in  my  calling.' 

'  I  shall  have  nothing  to  think  of,  then,'  said  the  Doctor,  with  a  smile,  '  but  my 
Dictionary  ;    and  this  other  contract-bargain — Annie.' 

As  Mr.  Wickfield  glanced  towards  her,  sitting  at  the  tea-table  by  Agnes,  she 
seemed  to  me  to  avoid  his  look  with  such  unwonted  hesitation  and  timidity,  that  his 
attention  became  fixed  upon  her,  as  if  something  were  suggested  to  his  thoughts. 

'  There  is  a  post  come  in  from  India,  I  observe,'  he  said,  after  a  short  silence. 

'  By  the  bye  !  and  letters  from  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  !  '  said  the  Doctor. 

'  Indeed  !  ' 

'  Poor  dear  Jack  !  '  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  shaking  her  head.  '  That  tr5dng 
climate  !  Like  living,  they  tell  me,  on  a  sand-heap,  underneath  a  burning-glass  ! 
He  looked  strong,  but  he  wasn't.  My  dear  Doctor,  it  was  his  spirit,  not  his  constitu- 
tion, that  he  ventured  on  so  boldly.  Annie,  my  dear,  I  am  sure  you  must  perfectly 
recollect  that  your  cousin  never  was  strong,  not  what  can  be  called  robust,  you  know,' 
said  Mrs.  Markleham,  with  emphasis,  and  looking  round  upon  us  generally  ;  '  from 
the  time  my  daughter  and  himself  were  children,  together,  and  walking  about,  arm- 
in-arm,  the  livelong  day.' 

Annie,  thus  addressed,  made  no  reply. 

'  Do  I  gather  from  what  you  say,  ma'am,  that  Mr.  Maldon  is  ill  ?  '  asked  Mr. 
Wickfield. 

'  111  !  '  replied  the  Old  Soldier.     '  My  dear  sir,  he  's  all  sorts  of  things.' 

'  Except  well  ?  '  said  Mr.  Wickfield. 

'  Except  well,  indeed  !  '  said  the  Old  Soldier.  '  He  has  had  dreadful  strokes  of 
the  sun,  no  doubt,  and  jungle  fevers  and  agues,  and  every  kind  of  thing  you  can 
mention.  As  to  his  liver,'  said  the  Old  Soldier  resignedly,  '  that,  of  course,  he  gave  up 
altogether,  when  he  first  went  out !  ' 

'  Does  he  say  all  this  ?  '  asked  Mr.  Wickfield. 

'  Say  ?  My  dear  sir,'  returned  Mrs.  Markleham,  shaking  her  head  and  her  fan, 
'  you  little  know  my  poor  Jack  Maldon  when  you  ask  that  question.  Say  ?  Not  he. 
You  might  drag  him  at  the  heels  of  four  wild  horses  first.' 


I  LOOK  ABOUT  ME,  AND  MAKE  A  DISCOVERY      i8i 

'  Mamma  !  '  said  Mrs.  Stron^r. 

'  Annie,  my  dear,'  returned  her  mother,  '  once  for  all,  I  must  really  beg  that  you 
will  not  interfere  with  me,  unless  it  is  to  confiriu  what  I  say.  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do,  that  your  cousin  Maldon  would  he  dragged  at  the  heels  of  any  number  of  wild 
horses — why  should  I  confine  myself  to  four  I  I  won't  confine  myself  to  four — eight, 
sixteen,  two-and-thirty,  rather  than  say  anything  calculated  to  overturn  the  Doctor's 
plans.' 

'  Wickfield's  plans,'  said  the  Doctor,  stroking  his  face,  and  looking  penitently  at 
his  adviser.  '  That  is  to  say,  our  joint  plans  for  him.  I  said  myself,  abroad  or 
at  home.' 

'  And  I  said,'  added  Mr.  Wickfield  gravely,  '  abroad.  I  was  the  means  of  sending 
him  abroad.     It  's  my  responsibility.' 

'  Oh  !  Responsibility  !  '  said  the  Old  Soldier.  '  Everything  was  done  for  the 
best,  my  dear  Mr.  Wickfield  ;  everything  was  done  for  the  kindest  and  best,  we  know. 
But  if  the  dear  fellow  can't  live  there,  he  can't  live  there.  And  if  he  can't  live  there, 
he  '11  die  there,  sooner  than  he  '11  overturn  the  Doctor's  plans.  I  know  him,'  said  the 
Old  Soldier,  fanning  herself,  in  a  sort  of  calm  prophetic  agony,  '  and  I  know  he  '11  die 
there,  sonner  than  he  '11  overturn  the  Doctor's  plans.' 

'  Well,  well,  ma'am,'  said  the  Doctor  cheerfully,  '  I  am  not  bigoted  to  my  plans, 
and  I  can  overturn  them  myself.  I  can  substitute  some  other  plans.  If  Mr.  Jack 
Maldon  comes  home  on  account  of  ill  health,  he  must  not  be  allowed  to  go  back,  and 
we  must  endeavour  to  make  some  more  suitable  and  fortunate  provision  for  him  in 
this  country.' 

Mrs.  Markleham  was  so  overcome  by  this  generous  speech  (which,  I  need  not  say, 
she  had  not  at  all  expected  or  led  up  to)  that  she  could  only  tell  the  Doctor  it  was  like 
himself,  and  go  several  times  through  that  operation  of  kissing  the  sticks  of  her  fan, 
and  then  tapping  his  hand  with  it.  After  which  she  gently  chid  her  daughter  Annie, 
for  not  being  more  demonstrative  when  such  kindnesses  were  showered,  for  her  sake, 
on  her  old  playfellow  ;  and  entertained  us  with  some  particulars  concerning  other 
deserving  members  of  her  family,  whom  it  was  desirable  to  set  on  their  deserving  legs. 

All  this  time,  her  daughter  Annie  never  once  spoke,  or  lifted  up  her  eyes.  All  this 
time,  Mr.  Wickfield  had  his  glance  upon  her  as  she  sat  by  his  own  daughter's  side.  It 
appeared  to  me  that  he  never  thought  of  being  observed  by  any  one  ;  but  was  so 
intent  upon  her,  and  upon  his  own  thoughts  in  connection  with  her,  as  to  be  quite 
absorbed.  He  now  asked  what  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  had  actually  written  in  reference  to 
himself,  and  to  whom  he  had  written  it  ? 

'  Why,  here,'  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  taking  a  letter  from  the  chimney-piece  above 
the  Doctor's  head,  '  the  dear  fellow  says  to  the  Doctor  himself — where  is  it  ?  Oh  ! — 
"  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you  that  my  health  is  suffering  severely,  and  that  I  fear  I 
may  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  returning  home  for  a  time,  as  the  only  hope  of 
restoration."  That 's  pretty  plain,  poor  fellow  I  His  only  hope  of  restoration  !  But 
Annie's  letter  is  plainer  still.     Annie,  show  me  that  letter  again.' 

'  Not  now,  mamma,'  she  pleaded  in  a  low  tone. 

'  My  dear,  you  absolutely  are,  on  some  subjects,  one  of  the  most  ridiculous  persons 
in  the  world,'  returned  her  mother,  '  and  perhaps  the  most  unnatural  to  the  claims  of 
your  own  family.  We  never  should  have  heard  of  the  letter  at  all,  I  believe,  unless  I 
had  asked  for  it  myself.  Do  you  call  that  confidence,  my  love,  towards  Doctor  Strong  ? 
I  am  surprised.     You  ought  to  know  better,' 


182  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

The  letter  was  reluctantly  produced  ;  and  as  I  handed  it  to  the  old  lady,  I  saw 
how  the  unwilling  hand  from  which  I  took  it,  trembled. 

'  Now  let  us  see,'  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  putting  her  glass  to  her  eye,  '  where  the 
passage  is.  "  The  remembrance  of  old  times,  my  dearest  Annie  " — and  so  forth — it 's 
not  there.  "  The  amiable  old  Proctor  " — who  's  he  ?  Dear  me,  Annie,  how  illegibly 
your  cousin  Maldon  writes,  and  how  stupid  I  am  !  "  Doctor,"  of  course.  Ah  !  amiable 
indeed  !  '  Here  she  left  off,  to  kiss  her  fan  again,  and  shake  it  at  the  Doctor,  who  was 
looking  at  us  in  a  state  of  placid  satisfaction.  '  Now  I  have  found  it.  "  You  may  not 
be  surprised  to  hear,  Annie," — no,  to  be  sure,  knowing  that  he  never  was  really  strong ; 
what  did  I  say  just  now  ? — "  that  I  have  undergone  so  much  in  this  distant  place,  as 
to  have  decided  to  leave  it  at  all  hazards  ;  on  sick  leave,  if  I  can  ;  on  total  resignation, 
if  that  is  not  to  be  obtained.  What  I  have  endured,  and  do  endure  here,  is  insupport- 
able." And  but  for  the  promptitude  of  that  best  of  creatures,'  said  Mrs.  Markleham, 
telegraphing  the  Doctor  as  before,  and  refolding  the  letter,  '  it  would  be  insupportable 
to  me  to  think  of.' 

Mr.  Wickfield  said  not  one  word,  though  the  old  lady  looked  to  him  as  if  for 
his  commentary  on  this  intelligence  ;  but  sat  severely  silent,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground.  Long  after  the  subject  was  dismissed,  and  other  topics  occupied  us,  he 
remained  so  ;  seldom  raising  his  eyes,  unless  to  rest  them  for  a  moment,  with  a 
thoughtful  frown,  upon  the  Doctor,  or  his  wife,  or  both. 

The  Doctor  was  very  fond  of  music.  Agnes  sang  with  great  sweetness  and  expres- 
sion, and  so  did  Mrs.  Strong.  They  sang  together,  and  played  duets  together,  and  we 
had  quite  a  little  concert.  But  I  remarked  two  things  :  first,  that  though  Annie  soon 
recovered  her  composure,  and  was  quite  herself,  there  was  a  blank  between  her  and 
Mr.  Wickfield  which  separated  them  wholly  from  each  other  ;  secondly,  that  Mr. 
Wickfield  seemed  to  dislike  the  intimacy  between  her  and  Agnes,  and  to  watch  it  with 
uneasiness.  And  now,  I  must  confess,  the  recollection  of  what  I  had  seen  on  that  night 
when  Mr.  Maldon  went  away,  first  began  to  return  upon  me  with  a  meaning  it  had 
never  had,  and  to  trouble  me.  The  innocent  beauty  of  her  face  was  not  as  innocent 
to  me  as  it  had  been  ;  I  mistrusted  the  natural  grace  and  charm  of  her  manner ;  and 
when  I  looked  at  Agnes  by  her  side,  and  thought  how  good  and  true  Agnes  was, 
suspicions  arose  within  me  that  it  was  an  ill-assorted  friendship. 

She  was  so  happy  in  it  herself,  however,  and  the  other  was  so  happy  too,  that 
they  made  the  evening  fly  away  as  if  it  were  but  an  hour.  It  closed  in  an  incident 
which  I  well  remember.  They  were  taking  leave  of  each  other,  and  Agnes  was  going 
to  embrace  her  and  kiss  her,  when  Mr.  Wickfield  stepped  between  them,  as  if  by 
accident,  and  drew  Agnes  quickly  away.  Then  I  saw,  as  though  all  the  intervening 
time  had  been  cancelled,  and  I  were  still  standing  in  the  doorway  on  the  night  of  the 
departure,  the  expression  of  that  night  in  the  face  of  Mrs.  Strong,  as  it  confronted  his. 

I  cannot  say  what  an  impression  this  made  upon  me,  or  how  impossible  I  found  it, 
when  I  thought  of  her  afterwards,  to  separate  her  from  this  look,  and  remember  her 
face  in  its  innocent  loveliness  again.  It  haunted  me  when  I  got  home.  I  seemed 
to  have  left  the  Doctor's  roof  with  a  dark  cloud  lowering  on  it.  The  reverence  that  I 
had  for  his  grey  head,  was  mingled  with  commiseration  for  his  faith  in  those  who 
were  treacherous  to  him,  and  with  resentment  against  those  who  injured  him.  The 
impending  shadow  of  a  great  aflliction,  and  a  great  disgrace  that  had  no  distinct  form 
in  it  yet,  fell  like  a  stain  upon  the  quiet  place  where  I  had  worked  and  played  as  a  boy, 
and  did  it  a  cruel  wrong.     I  had  no  pleasure  in  thinking,  any  more,  of  the  grave  old 


1   LOOK  ABOUT  M  K,  AND  MAKE  A  DISCOVERY      ih3 

broad-leaved  aloe-trees  which  remained  shut  up  in  themselves  a  hundred  years 
together,  and  of  the  trim  smooth  ^niiss-plot,  and  the  stone  urns,  and  the  Doctor's 
Walk,  and  the  congenial  sound  of  the  cathedral  l)ell  hovering  above  them  all.  It  was 
as  if  the  trancpiil  sanctuary  of  my  boyhood  had  been  sacked  before  my  face,  and  its 
peace  an<l  lionoiir  given  to  the  winds. 

But  morning  brought  with  it  m\  purling  from  the  old  house,  which  Agnes  had 
filled  with  her  influence  ;  uiid  that  occupied  my  mind  sufliciently.  I  should  be  there 
again  soon,  no  doubt  ;  I  might  sleep  again — perhaps  often — in  my  old  room  ;  but  the 
days  of  my  inhabiting  there  were  gone,  and  the  old  time  was  past.  I  was  heavier  at 
heart  when  I  packed  up  such  of  my  books  and  clothes  as  still  remained  there  to  be 
sent  to  Dover,  than  I  cared  to  show  to  Uriah  llcep  :  who  was  so  oilicious  to  help  me, 
that  I  uncharitably  thought  him  mighty  glad  that  I  was  going. 

I  got  away  from  Agnes  and  her  father,  somehow,  with  an  indifferent  show  of 
being  very  manly,  and  took  my  seat  upon  the  box  of  the  London  coach.  I  was  so 
softened  and  forgiving,  going  through  the  town,  that  I  had  half  a  mind  to  nod  to  my 
old  enemy  the  butcher,  and  throw  him  five  shillings  to  drink.  But  he  looked  such  a 
very  obdurate  butcher  as  he  stood  scraping  the  great  block  in  the  siiop,  and  moreover, 
his  appearance  was  so  little  improved  by  the  loss  of  a  front  tooth  which  I  had  knocked 
out,  that  I  thought  it  best  to  make  no  advances. 

The  main  object  on  my  mind,  I  remember,  when  we  got  fairly  on  the  road,  was 
to  appear  as  old  as  jjossiblc  to  the  coachman,  and  to  speak  extremely  gruff.  The  latter 
point  I  achieved  at  great  personal  inconvenience  ;  but  I  stuck  to  it,  because  I  felt  it 
was  a  grown-up  sort  of  thing. 

'  You  are  going  through,  sir  ?  '  said  the  coachman. 

'  Yes,  William,'  I  said,  condescendingly  (I  knew  him)  ;  '  1  am  going  to  London. 
I  shall  go  down  into  Suffolk  afterwards.' 

'  Shooting,  sir  ?  '  said  the  coachman. 

He  knew  as  well  as  I  did  that  it  was  just  as  likely,  at  that  time  of  year,  I  was 
going  down  there  whaling  ;   but  I  felt  complimented,  too. 

'  I  don't  know,'  I  said,  pretending  to  be  undecided,  '  whether  I  shall  take  a  shot 
or  not.' 

'  Birds  is  got  wery  shy,  I  'm  told,'  said  William. 

'  So  I  understand,'  said  I. 

'  Is  Suffolk  your  county,  sir  ?  '  asked  William. 

'  Yes,'  I  said,  with  some  importance.     '  Suffolk  's  my  county.' 

'  I  'm  told  the  dumplings  is  uncommon  fine  down  there,'  said  William. 

I  was  not  aware  of  it  myself,  but  I  felt  it  necessary  to  uphold  the  institutions  of 
my  county,  and  to  evince  a  familiarity  with  them  ;  so  I  shook  my  head,  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  I  believe  you  !  ' 

'  And  the  Punches,"  said  William.  '  There  's  cattle  !  A  Suffolk  Punch,  when 
he  's  a  good  'un,  is  worth  his  weight  in  gold.  Did  you  ever  breed  any  Suffolk  Punches 
yourself,  sir  ?  ' 

'  N — no,'  I  said,  '  not  exactly.' 

'  Here  's  a  gen'l'm'n  behind  me,  I  '11  pound  it,'  said  William,  '  as  has  bred  'em  by 
wholesale.' 

The  gentleman  spoken  of  was  a  gentleman  with  a  very  unpromising  squint,  and 
a  prominent  chin,  who  had  a  tall  white  hat  on  with  a  narrow  flat  brim,  and  whose 
close-fitting  drab  trousers  seemed  to  button  all  the  way  up  outside  his  legs  from  his 


184  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

boots  to  his  hips.  His  chin  was  cocked  over  the  coachman's  shoulder,  so  near  to  me, 
that  his  breath  quite  tickled  the  back  of  my  head  ;  and  as  I  looked  round  at  him, 
he  leered  at  the  leaders  with  the  eye  with  which  he  didn't  squint,  in  a  very  knowing 
manner. 

'  Ain't  you  ?  '  asked  William. 

'  Ain't  I  what  ?  '  said  the  gentleman  behind. 

'  Bred  them  Suffolk  Punches  by  wholesale  ?  ' 

'  I  should  think  so,'  said  the  gentleman.  '  There  ain't  no  sort  of  orse  that  I 
ain't  bred,  and  no  sort  of  dorg.  Orses  and  dorgs  is  some  men's  fancy.  They  're  wittles 
and  drink  to  me — lodging,  wife,  and  children — reading,  writing,  and  'rithmetic — snuff, 
tobacker,  and  sleep.' 

'  That  ain't  a  sort  of  man  to  see  sitting  behind  a  coach-box,  is  it  though  ?  '  said 
William  in  my  ear,  as  he  handled  the  reins. 

I  construed  this  remark  into  an  indication  of  a  wish  that  he  should  have  my 
place,  so  I  blushingly  offered  to  resign  it. 

'  Well,  if  you  don't  mind,  sir,'  said  William,  '  I  think  it  would  be  more 
correct.' 

I  have  always  considered  this  as  the  first  fall  I  had  in  life.  When  I  booked  my 
place  at  the  coach-office,  I  had  had  '  Box  Seat '  written  against  the  entry,  and  had 
given  the  book-keeper  half-a-crown.  I  was  got  up  in  a  special  great-coat  and  shawl, 
expressly  to  do  honour  to  that  distinguished  eminence  ;  had  glorified  myself  upon  it  a 
good  deal  ;  and  had  felt  that  I  was  a  credit  to  the  coach.  And  here,  in  the  very  first 
stage,  I  was  supplanted  by  a  shabby  man  with  a  squint,  who  had  no  other  merit  than 
smelling  like  a  livery  stables,  and  being  able  to  walk  across  me,  more  like  a  fly  than  a 
human  being,  while  the  horses  were  at  a  canter  ! 

A  distrust  of  myself,  which  has  often  beset  me  in  life  on  small  occasions,  when 
it  would  have  been  better  away,  was  assuredly  not  stopped  in  its  growth  by  this  little 
incident  outside  the  Canterbury  coach.  It  was  in  vain  to  take  refuge  in  gruffness  of 
speech.  I  spoke  from  the  pit  of  my  stomach  for  the  rest  of  the  journey,  but  I  felt 
completely  extinguished,  and  dreadfully  young. 

It  was  curious  and  interesting,  nevertheless,  to  be  sitting  up  there,  behind  four 
horses  :  well  educated,  well  dressed,  and  with  plenty  of  money  in  my  pocket ;  and  to 
look  out  for  the  places  where  I  had  slept  on  my  weary  journey.  I  had  abundant 
occupation  for  my  thoughts,  in  every  conspicuous  landmark  on  the  road.  When  I 
looked  down  at  the  tramps  whom  we  passed,  and  saw  that  well-remembered  stj'le  of 
face  turned  up,  I  felt  as  if  the  tinker's  blackened  hand  were  in  the  bosom  of  my  shirt 
again.  When  we  clattered  through  the  narrow  street  of  Chatham,  and  I  caught  a 
glimpse,  in  passing,  of  the  lane  where  the  old  monster  lived  who  had  bought  my  jacket, 
I  stretched  my  neck  eagerly  to  look  for  the  place  where  I  had  sat,  in  the  sun  and  in  the 
shade,  waiting  for  my  money.  When  we  came,  at  last,  within  a  stage  of  London,  and 
passed  the  veritable  Salem  House  where  Mr.  Creakle  had  laid  about  him  with  a  heavy 
hand,  I  would  have  given  all  I  had,  for  lawful  permission  to  get  down  and  thrash  him, 
and  let  all  the  boys  out  like  so  many  caged  sparrows. 

We  went  to  the  Golden  Cross,  at  Charing  Cross,  then  a  mouldy  sort  of  establish- 
ment in  a  close  neighbourhood.  A  waiter  showed  me  into  the  coffee-room  ;  and  a 
chambermaid  introduced  me  to  my  small  bed-chamber,  which  smelt  like  a  hackney- 
coach,  and  was  shut  up  like  a  family  vault.  I  was  still  painfully  conscious  of  my 
youth,  for  nobody  stood  in  any  awe  of  me  at  all  :    the  chambermaid  being  utterly 


I  LOOK  ABOUT  ME,  AND  MAKE  A  DISCOVERY      185 

indifferent  to  my  opinions  on  any  subject,  and  the  waiter  being  familiar  with  mc,  and 
offering  advice  to  niy  inexperience. 

'  Well  now,'  said  the  waiter,  in  a  tone  of  confidence,  '  what  would  you  like  for 
dinner  ?     Young  gentlemen  likes  jjoultry  in  general  :    have  a  fowl  !  ' 

I  told  him,  US  niajeslicaily  as  I  could,  that  I  wasn't  in  the  humour  for  a  fowl. 

'  Ain't  you  ?  '  said  the  waiter.  '  Young  gentlemen  is  generally  tired  of  beef  and 
mutton  :    have  a  weal  cutlet  !  ' 

I  assented  to  this  proposal,  in  default  of  being  able  to  suggest  anything  else. 

'  Do  you  care  for  taters  ?  '  said  the  waiter,  with  an  insinuating  smile,  and  his  head 
on  one  side.     '  Young  gentlemen  generally  has  been  overdosed  with  taters.' 

I  commanded  him,  in  my  deepest  voice,  to  order  a  veal  cutlet  and  potatoes,  and 
all  things  fitting  ;  and  to  inquire  at  the  bar  if  there  were  any  letters  for  Trotwood 
Copperfield,  Esquire — which  I  knew  there  were  not,  and  couldn't  be,  but  thought  it 
manly  to  appear  to  expect. 

He  soon  came  back  to  say  that  there  were  none  (at  which  I  was  much  surprised), 
and  began  to  lay  the  cloth  for  my  dinner  in  a  box  by  the  fire.  While  he  was  so  engaged, 
he  asked  me  what  I  would  take  with  it ;  and  on  my  replying  '  Half  a  pint  of  sherrj',' 
thought  it  a  favourable  opportunity,  I  am  afraid,  to  extract  that  measure  of  wine 
from  the  stale  leavings  at  the  bottoms  of  several  small  decanters.  I  am  of  this  opinion, 
because,  while  I  was  reading  the  newspaper,  I  observed  him  behind  a  low  wooden 
partition,  which  was  his  private  apartment,  very  busy  pouring  out  of  a  number  of 
those  vessels  into  one,  like  a  chemist  and  druggist  making  up  a  prescription.  When  the 
wine  came,  too,  I  thought  it  flat  ;  and  it  certainly  had  more  English  crumbs  in  it,  than 
were  to  be  expected  in  a  foreign  wine  in  anything  like  a  pure  state  ;  but  I  was  bashful 
enough  to  drink  it,  and  say  nothing. 

Being  then,  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind  (from  which  I  infer  that  poisoning  is  not 
always  disagreeable  in  some  stages  of  the  process),  I  resolved  to  go  to  the  play.  It 
was  Covent  Garden  Theatre  that  I  chose  ;  and  there,  from  the  back  of  a  centre  box, 
I  saw  Julius  Caesar  and  the  new  Pantomime.  To  have  all  those  noble  Romans  alive 
before  me,  and  walking  in  and  out  for  my  entertainment,  instead  of  being  the  stem 
taskmasters  they  had  been  at  school,  was  a  most  novel  and  delightful  effect.  But  the 
mingled  reality  and  mystery  of  the  whole  show,  the  influence  upon  me  of  the  poetry, 
the  lights,  the  music,  the  company,  the  smooth  stupendous  changes  of  glittering  and 
brilliant  scenery,  were  so  dazzling,  and  opened  up  such  illimitable  regions  of  delight, 
that  when  I  came  out  into  the  rainy  street,  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
come  from  the  clouds,  where  I  had  been  leading  a  romantic  life  for  ages,  to  a  bawling, 
splashing,  link-lighted,  umbrella-struggling,  hackney-coach-jostling,  patten-clinking, 
muddy,  miserable  world. 

I  had  emerged  by  another  door,  and  stood  in  the  street  for  a  little  while,  as  if 
I  really  were  a  stranger  upon  earth  ;  but  the  unceremonious  pushing  and  hustling  that 
I  received,  soon  recalled  me  to  myself,  and  put  me  in  the  road  back  to  the  hotel  ; 
whither  I  went,  revolving  the  glorious  vision  all  the  way  ;  and  where,  after  some 
porter  and  oysters,  I  sat  revolving  it  still,  at  past  one  o'clock,  with  my  eyes  on  the 
coffee-room  fire. 

I  was  so  filled  with  the  play,  and  with  the  past — for  it  was,  in  a  manner,  like  a 
shining  transparency,  through  which  I  saw  my  earlier  life  moving  along— that  I  don't 
know  when  the  figure  of  a  handsome  well-formed  young  man,  dressed  with  a  tasteful 
easy  negligence  which  I  have  reason  to  remember  very  well,  became  a  real  presence  to 


186  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

me.  But  I  recollect  being  conscious  of  his  company  without  having  noticed  his  coming 
in — and  my  still  sitting,  musing,  over  the  coffee-room  fire. 

At  last  I  rose  to  go  to  bed,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  sleepy  waiter,  who  had  got 
the  fidgets  in  his  legs,  and  was  twisting  them,  and  hitting  them,  and  putting  them 
through  all  kinds  of  contortions  in  his  small  pantry.  In  going  towards  the  door,  I 
passed  the  person  who  had  come  in,  and  saw  him  plainly.  I  turned  directly,  came  back, 
and  looked  again.     He  did  not  know  me,  but  I  knew  him  in  a  moment. 

At  another  time  I  might  have  wanted  the  confidence  or  the  decision  to  speak  to 
him,  and  might  have  put  it  off  until  next  day,  and  might  have  lost  him.  But,  in  the 
then  condition  of  my  mind,  where  the  play  was  still  running  high,  his  former  protection 
of  me  appeared  so  deserving  of  my  gratitude,  and  my  old  love  for  him  overflowed  my 
breast  so  freshly  and  spontaneously,  that  I  went  up  to  him  at  once,  with  a  fast- 
beating  heart,  and  said — 

'  Steerforth  !   won't  you  speak  to  me  ?  ' 

He  looked  at  me — just  as  he  used  to  look,  sometimes — but  I  saw  no  recognition 
in  his  face. 

'  You  don't  remember  me,  I  am  afraid,'  said  I. 

'  My  God  ! '  he  suddenly  exclaimed.     '  It 's  little  Copperfield  !  ' 

I  grasped  him  by  both  hands,  and  could  not  let  them  go.  But  for  very  shame, 
and  the  fear  that  it  might  displease  him,  I  could  have  held  him  round  the  neck  and 
cried. 

'  I  never,  never,  never  was  so  glad  !  My  dear  Steerforth,  I  am  so  overjoyed  to 
see  you  !  ' 

'  And  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you,  too  !  '  he  said,  shaking  my  hands  heartily.  '  Why, 
Copperfield,  old  boy,  don't  be  overpowered  !  '  And  yet  he  was  glad,  too,  I  thought, 
to  see  how  the  delight  I  had  in  meeting  him  affected  me. 

I  brushed  away  the  tears  that  my  utmost  resolution  had  not  been  able  to  keep 
back,  and  I  made  a  clumsy  laugh  of  it,  and  we  sat  down  together,  side  by  side. 

'  Why,  how  do  you  come  to  be  here  ?  '  said  Steerforth,  clapping  me  on  the  shoulder. 

'  I  came  here  by  the  Canterbury  coach,  to-day.  I  have  been  adopted  by  an  aunt 
down  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  have  just  finished  my  education  there.  How 
do  you  come  to  be  here,  Steerforth  ?  ' 

'  Well,  I  am  what  they  call  an  Oxford  man,'  he  returned  ;  '  that  is  to  say,  I  get 
bored  to  death  down  there,  periodically — and  I  am  on  my  way  now  to  my  mother's. 
You  're  a  devilish  amiable-looking  fellow,  Copperfield.  Just  what  you  used  to  be, 
now  I  look  at  you  !     Not  altered  in  the  least  !  ' 

'  I  knew  you  immediately,'  I  said  ;   '  but  you  are  more  easily  remembered.' 

He  laughed  as  he  ran  his  hand  through  the  clustering  curls  of  his  hair,  and  said 
gaily— 

'  Yes,  I  am  on  an  expedition  of  duty.  My  mother  lives  a  little  way  out  of  town  ; 
and  the  roads  being  in  a  beastly  condition,  and  our  house  tedious  enough,  I  remained 
here  to-night  instead  of  going  on.  I  have  not  been  in  town  half  a  dozen  hours,  and 
those  I  have  been  dozing  and  grumbling  away  at  the  play.' 

'  I  have  been  at  the  play,  too,'  said  I.  '  At  Covent  Garden.  What  a  delightful 
and  magnificent  entertainment,  Steerforth  !  ' 

Steerforth  laughed  heartily. 

'  My  dear  young  Davy,'  he  said,  clapping  me  on  the  shoulder  again,  '  you  are  a 
very  Daisy.     The  daisy  of  the  field,  at  sunrise,  is  not  fresher  than  you  are  !     I  have 


STEERFORTH'S  HOME  187 

been  at  Covent  Garden,  too,  and  there  never  was  a  more  miseralile  business,  rialloa, 
you  sir  !  ' 

This  was  addressed  to  the  waiter,  who  had  been  very  attentive  to  our  recognition, 
at  a  distance,  and  now  came  forward  deferentially. 

'  Where  have  you  put  my  friend,  Mr.  C'oppcrfield  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  Beg  your  pardon,  sir  ?  ' 

'  Where  does  he  sleep  ?  What  's  his  numl)er  ?  You  i<now  what  I  mean,'  said 
Steerforth. 

'  Well,  sir,'  said  the  waiter,  with  an  apologetic  air.  '  Mr.  Copperfield  is  at  present 
in  forty-four,  sir.' 

'  And  what  the  devil  do  you  mean,'  retorted  Steerforth,  '  by  putting  Mr.  Copper- 
field  into  a  little  loft  over  a  stable  ?  ' 

'  Why,  you  see  we  wasn't  aware,  sir,'  returned  the  waiter,  still  apologetically, 
'  as  Mr.  Copperfield  was  anyways  particular.  We  can  give  Mr.  Copperfield  seventy-two, 
sir,  if  it  would  be  preferred.     Next  you,  sir.' 

'  Of  course  it  would  be  preferred,'  said  Steerforth.     '  And  do  it  at  once.' 

The  waiter  immediately  withdrew  to  make  the  exchange.  Steerforth,  very  much 
amused  at  my  having  been  put  into  forty-four,  laughed  again,  and  clapped  me  on  the 
shoulder  again,  and  invited  me  to  breakfast  with  him  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock — 
an  invitation  I  was  only  too  proud  and  happy  to  accept.  It  being  now  pretty  late,  we 
took  our  candles  and  went  upstairs,  where  we  parted  with  friendly  heartiness  at  his 
door,  and  where  I  found  my  new  room  a  great  improvement  on  my  old  one,  it  not  being 
at  all  musty,  and  having  an  immense  four-post  bedstead  in  it,  which  was  quite  a  little 
landed  estate.  Here,  among  pillows  enough  for  six,  I  soon  fell  asleep  in  a  blissful 
condition,  and  dreamed  of  ancient  Rome,  Steerforth,  and  friendship,  until  the  early 
morning  coaches,  rumbling  out  of  the  archway  underneath,  made  me  dream  of  thunder 
and  the  gods. 


CHAPTER    XX 
steerforth's  home 

WHEN  the  chambermaid  tapped  at  my  door  at  eight  o'clock,  and  informed 
me  that  my  shaving-water  was  outside,  I  felt  severely  the  having  no 
occasion  for  it,  and  blushed  in  my  bed.  The  suspicion  that  she  laughed 
too,  when  she  said  it,  preyed  upon  my  mind  all  the  time  I  was  dressing ; 
and  gave  me,  I  was  conscious,  a  sneaking  and  guilty  air  when  I  passed  her  on  the 
staircase,  as  I  was  going  down  to  breakfast.  I  was  so  sensitively  aware,  indeed,  of  being 
younger  than  I  could  have  wished,  that  for  some  time  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind 
to  pass  her  at  all,  under  the  ignoble  circumstances  of  the  case  ;  but,  hearing  her  there 
with  a  broom,  stood  peeping  out  of  window  at  King  Charles  on  horseback,  surrounded 
by  a  maze  of  hackney-coaches,  and  looking  anything  but  regal  in  a  drizzling  rain  and 
a  dark-brown  fog,  until  I  was  admonished  by  the  waiter  that  the  gentleman  was  waiting 
for  me. 

It  was  not  in  the  coffee-room  that  I  found  Steerforth  expecting  me,  but  in  a  snug 
private  apartment,  red-curtained  and  Turkey-carpeted,  where  the  fire  bunit  bright. 


188  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

and  a  fine  hot  breakfast  was  set  forth  on  a  table  covered  with  a  clean  cloth  ;  and  a 
cheerful  miniature  of  the  room,  the  fire,  the  breakfast,  Steerforth,  and  all,  was  shining 
in  the  little  round  mirror  over  the  sideboard.  I  was  rather  bashful  at  first,  Steerforth 
being  so  self-possessed,  and  elegant,  and  superior  to  me  in  all  respects  (age  included) ; 
but  his  easy  patronage  soon  put  that  to  rights,  and  made  me  quite  at  home.  I  could 
not  enough  admire  the  change  he  had  wrought  in  the  Golden  Cross  ;  or  compare  the 
dull  forlorn  state  I  had  held  yesterday,  with  this  morning's  comfort  and  this  morning's 
entertainment.  As  to  the  waiter's  familiarity,  it  was  quenched  as  if  it  had  never  been. 
He  attended  on  us,  as  I  may  say,  in  sackcloth  and  ashes. 

'  Now,  Copperfield,'  said  Steerforth,  when  we  were  alone,  '  I  should  like  to  hear 
what  you  are  doing,  and  where  you  are  going,  and  all  about  you.  I  feel  as  if  you  were 
my  property.' 

Glowing  with  pleasure  to  find  that  he  had  still  this  interest  in  me,  I  told  him 
how  my  aunt  had  proposed  the  little  expedition  that  I  had  before  me,  and  whither  it 
tended. 

'  As  you  are  in  no  hurry,  then,'  said  Steerforth,  '  come  home  with  me  to  Highgate, 
and  stay  a  day  or  two.  You  will  be  pleased  with  my  mother — she  is  a  little  vain  and 
prosy  about  me,  but  that  you  can  forgive  her — and  she  will  be  pleased  with  you.' 

'  I  should  like  to  be  as  sure  of  that,  as  you  are  kind  enough  to  say  you  are,'  I 
answered,  smiling. 

'  Oh  !  '  said  Steerforth,  '  every  one  who  likes  me,  has  a  claim  on  her  that  is  sure  to 
be  acknowledged.' 

'  Then  I  think  I  shall  be  a  favourite,'  said  I. 

'  Good  !  '  said  Steerforth.  '  Come  and  prove  it.  We  will  go  and  see  the  lions 
for  an  hour  or  two — it 's  something  to  have  a  fresh  fellow  like  you  to  show  them 
to,  Copperfield — and  then  we  '11  journey  out  to  Highgate  by  the  coach.' 

I  could  hardly  believe  but  that  I  was  in  a  dream,  and  that  I  should  wake  presently 
in  number  forty-four,  to  the  solitary  box  in  the  coffee-room  and  the  familiar  waiter 
again.  After  I  had  written  to  my  aunt  and  told  her  of  my  fortunate  meeting  with 
my  admired  old  schoolfellow,  and  my  acceptance  of  his  invitation,  we  went  out  in  a 
hackney-chariot,  and  saw  a  Panorama  and  some  other  sights,  and  took  a  walk  through 
the  Museum,  where  I  could  not  help  observing  how  much  Steerforth  knew,  on  an 
infinite  variety  of  subjects,  and  of  how  little  account  he  seemed  to  make  his 
knowledge. 

'  You  '11  take  a  high  degree  at  college,  Steerforth,'  said  I,  '  if  you  have  not  done  so 
already  ;   and  they  will  have  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  you.' 

'  /  take  a  degree  !  '  cried  Steerforth.  '  Not  I  !  my  dear  Daisy— will  you  mind 
my  calling  you  Daisy  ?  ' 

'  Not  at  all  !  '  said  I. 

'  That 's  a  good  fellow  !  My  dear  Daisy,*  said  Steerforth,  laughing,  '  I  have 
not  the  least  desire  or  intention  to  distinguish  myself  in  that  way.  I  have  done  quite 
sufficient  for  my  purpose.  I  find  that  I  am  heavy  company  enough  for  myself  as 
lam.' 

'  But  the  fame '  I  was  beginning. 

'  You  romantic  Daisy  !  '  said  Steerforth,  laughing  still  more  heartily  ;  '  why 
should  I  trouble  myself,  that  a  parcel  of  heavy-headed  fellows  may  gape  and  hold 
up  their  hands  ?  Let  them  do  it  at  some  other  man.  There  's  fame  for  him,  and 
he  's  welcome  to  it.' 


STEERFOUTH'S  HOME  18.) 

I  was  abashed  at  having  made  so  great  a  mistake,  and  was  glad  to  change  the 
subject.  Fortunately  it  was  not  dilficult  to  do,  for  Steerforth  could  always  pass  from 
one  subject  to  another  with  a  carelessness  and  lightness  that  were  his  own. 

Lunch  succeeded  to  our  sight-seeing,  and  the  short  winter  day  wore  away  so  fast, 
that  it  was  dusk  when  the  stage-coach  stopped  with  us  at  an  old  brick  house  at  High- 
gate  on  the  summit  of  the  hill.  An  elderly  lady,  though  not  very  far  advanced  in  years, 
with  a  proud  carriage  and  a  handsome  face,  was  in  the  doorway  as  we  alighted  ;  and 
greeting  Steerforth  as  '  My  dearest  James,'  folded  him  in  her  arms.  To  this  lady  he 
presented  me  as  his  mother,  and  she  gave  me  a  stately  welcome. 

It  was  a  genteel  old-fashioned  house,  very  quiet  and  orderly.  From  the  windows 
of  my  room  I  saw  all  London  lying  in  the  distance  like  a  great  vapour,  with  here  and 
there  some  lights  twinkling  through  it.  I  had  only  time,  in  dressing,  to  glance  at  the 
solid  furniture,  the  framed  pieces  of  work  (done,  I  supposed,  by  Steerforth's  mother 
when  she  was  a  girl),  and  some  pictures  in  crayons  of  ladies  with  powdered  hair  and 
bodices,  coming  and  going  on  the  walls,  as  the  newly-kindled  fire  crackled  and  sputtered, 
when  I  was  called  to  dinner. 

There  was  a  second  lady  in  the  dining-room,  of  a  slight  short  figure,  dark,  and  not 
agreeable  to  look  at,  but  with  some  appearance  of  good  looks  too,  who  attracted  my 
attention  :  perhaps  because  I  had  not  expected  to  see  her  :  perhaps  because  I  found 
myself  sitting  opposite  to  her  :  perhaps  because  of  something  really  remarkable  in 
her.  She  had  black  hair  and  eager  black  eyes,  and  was  thin,  and  had  a  scar  upon  her 
lip.  It  was  an  old  scar — I  should  rather  call  it,  seam,  for  it  was  not  discoloured,  and 
had  healed  years  ago — which  had  once  cut  through  her  mouth,  downward  towards 
the  chin,  but  was  now  barely  visible  across  the  table,  except  above  and  on  her  upper 
lip,  the  shape  of  which  it  had  altered.  I  concluded  in  my  own  mind  that  she  was 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  that  she  wished  to  be  married.  She  was  a  little  dilapi- 
dated— like  a  house — with  having  been  so  long  to  let ;  yet  had,  as  I  have  said,  an 
appearance  of  good  looks.  Her  thinness  seemed  to  be  the  effect  of  some  wasting  fire 
within  her,  which  found  a  vent  in  her  gaunt  eyes. 

She  was  introduced  as  Miss  Dartle,  and  both  Steerforth  and  his  mother  called  her 
Rosa.  I  found  that  she  lived  there,  and  had  been  for  a  long  time  Mrs.  Steerforth's 
companion.  It  appeared  to  me  that  she  never  said  anything  she  wanted  to  say, 
outright ;  but  hinted  it,  and  made  a  great  deal  more  of  it  by  this  practice.  For 
example,  when  Mrs.  Steerforth  observed,  more  in  jest  than  earnest,  that  she  feared 
her  son  led  but  a  wild  life  at  college.  Miss  Dartle  put  in  thus — ■ 

'  Oh,  really  ?  You  know  how  ignorant  I  am,  and  that  I  only  ask  for  information, 
but  isn't  it  always  so  ?  I  thought  that  kind  of  life  was  on  all  hands  understood  to  be 
—eh?' 

'  It  is  education  for  a  very  grave  profession,  if  you  mean  that,  Rosa,'  Mrs.  Steerforth 
answered  with  some  coldness. 

'  Oh  !  Yes  !  That 's  very  true,'  returned  Miss  Dartle.  '  But  isn't  it,  though  ? 
— I  want  to  be  put  right,  if  I  am  wrong — isn't  it,  really  ?  ' 

'  Really  what  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Steerforth. 

'  Oh  !  You  mean  it  's  not  !  '  returned  Miss  Dartle.  '  Well,  I  'm  very  glad  to  hear 
it !  Now,  I  know  what  to  do  !  That 's  the  advantage  of  asking.  I  shall  never  allow 
people  to  talk  before  me  about  wastefulness  and  profligacy,  and  so  forth,  in  connection 
with  that  life,  any  more.' 

'  And  you  will  be  right,'  said  Mrs.  Steerforth.     '  My  son  's  tutor  is  a  conscientious 


190  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

gentleman  ;  and  if  I  had  not  implicit  reliance  on  my  son,  I  should  have  reliance 
on  him.' 

'  Should  you  ?  '  said  Miss  Dartle.  '  Dear  me  !  Conscientious,  is  he  ?  Really 
conscientious,  now  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  am  convinced  of  it,'  said  Mrs.  Steerforth. 

'  How  very  nice  !  '  exclaimed  Miss  Dartle.  '  What  a  comfort  !  Really  conscien- 
tious ?  Then  he  's  not — but  of  course  he  can't  be,  if  he  's  really  conscientious.  Well, 
I  shall  be  quite  happy  in  my  opinion  of  him,  from  this  time.  You  can't  think  how  it 
elevates  him  in  my  opinion,  to  know  for  certain  that  he  's  really  conscientious  !  ' 

Her  own  views  of  every  question,  and  her  correction  of  everything  that  was  said 
to  which  she  was  opposed.  Miss  Dartle  insinuated  in  the  same  way  :  sometimes,  I 
could  not  conceal  from  myself,  with  great  power,  though  in  contradiction  even  of 
Steerforth.  An  instance  happened  before  dinner  was  done.  Mrs.  Steerforth  speaking 
to  me  about  my  intention  of  going  down  into  Suffolk,  I  said  at  hazard  how  glad  I  should 
be,  if  Steerforth  would  only  go  there  with  me  ;  and  explaining  to  him  that  I  was  going 
to  see  my  old  nurse,  and  Mr.  Peggotty's  family,  I  reminded  him  of  the  boatman  whom 
he  had  seen  at  school. 

'  Oh  !     That  bluff  fellow  !  '  said  Steerforth.     '  He  had  a  son  with  him,  hadn't  he  ?  ' 

'  No.  That  was  his  nephew,'  I  replied  ;  '  whom  he  adopted,  though,  as  a  son. 
He  has  a  very  pretty  little  niece  too,  whom  he  adopted  as  a  daughter.  In  short,  his 
house  (or  rather  his  boat,  for  he  lives  in  one,  on  dry  land)  is  full  of  people  who  are 
objects  of  his  generosity  and  kindness.     You  would  be  delighted  to  see  that  household.' 

'  Should  I  ?  '  said  Steerforth.  '  Well,  I  think  I  should.  I  must  see  what  can 
be  done.  It  would  be  worth  a  journey  (not  to  mention  the  pleasure  of  a  journey  with 
you,  Daisy),  to  see  that  sort  of  people  together,  and  to  make  one  of  'em.' 

My  heart  leaped  with  a  new  hope  of  pleasure.  But  it  was  in  reference  to  the  tone 
in  which  he  had  spoken  of  '  that  sort  of  people,'  that  Miss  Dartle,  whose  sparkling  eyes 
had  been  watchful  of  us,  now  broke  in  again. 

'  Oh,  but,  really  ?     Do  tell  me.     Are  they,  though  ?  '  she  said. 

'  Are  they  what  ?     And  are  who  what  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  That  sort  of  people.  Are  they  really  animals  and  clods,  and  beings  of  another 
order  ?     I  want  to  know  so  much.' 

'  WTiy,  there  's  a  pretty  wide  separation  between  them  and  us,'  said  Steerforth, 
with  indifference.  '  They  are  not  to  be  expected  to  be  as  sensitive  as  we  are.  Their 
delicacy  is  not  to  be  shocked,  or  hurt  very  easily.  They  are  wonderfully  virtuous,  I 
dare  say.  Some  people  contend  for  that,  at  least ;  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to 
contradict  them.  But  they  have  not  very  fine  natures,  and  they  may  be  thankful 
that,  like  their  coarse  rough  skins,  they  are  not  easily  wounded.' 

'  Really  !  '  said  Miss  Dartle.  '  Well,  I  don't  know,  now,  when  I  have  been  better 
pleased  than  to  hear  that.  It 's  so  consoling  !  It 's  such  a  delight  to  know  that,  when 
they  suffer,  they  don't  feel  !  Sometimes  I  have  been  quite  uneasy  for  that  sort  of 
people  ;  but  now  I  shall  just  dismiss  the  idea  of  them  altogether.  Live  and  learn. 
I  had  my  doubts,  I  confess,  but  now  they  're  cleared  up.  I  didn't  know,  and  now  I 
do  know,  and  that  shows  the  advantage  of  asking — don't  it  ?  ' 

I  believed  that  Steerforth  had  said  what  he  had,  in  jest,  or  to  draw  Miss  Dartle 
out ;  and  I  expected  him  to  say  as  much  when  she  was  gone,  and  we  two  were  sitting 
before  the  fire.     But  he  merely  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  her. 

'  She  is  very  clever,  is  she  not  ?  '  I  asked. 


HTEERFORTH'S  HOME  I9i 

'  Clever  !  She  brinj^s  everythinf?  to  a  K^'in^'^tone,'  said  Steerforth,  '  and  sharpens 
it,  as  she  has  sharpened  her  own  face  iind  ligure  these  years  past.  She  has  worn  herself 
away  by  constant  sharpening.     She  is  all  edge.' 

'  What  a  remarkable  scar  that  is  upon  her  lip  !  '  I  said. 

Steerforth's  face  fell,  and  he  paused  a  moment. 

'  Why,  the  fact  is,'  he  returned,  '  /  did  that.' 

'  By  an  unfortunate  accident  ! 

'  No.  I  was  a  young  boy,  and  she  exasperated  me,  and  I  threw  a  hammer  at  her. 
A  promising  young  angel  I  must  have  been  !  ' 

I  was  deeply  sorry  to  have  touched  on  such  a  painful  theme,  but  that  was  useless 
now. 

'  She  has  borne  the  mark  ever  since,  as  you  see,'  said  Steerforth  ;  '  and  she  '11 
bear  it  to  her  grave,  if  she  ever  rests  in  one  ;  though  I  can  hardly  believe  she  will  ever 
rest  anywhere.  She  was  the  motherless  child  of  a  sort  of  cousin  of  my  father's.  He 
died  one  day.  My  mother,  who  was  then  a  widow,  brought  her  here  to  be  company 
to  her.  She  has  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  of  her  own,  and  saves  the  interest  of 
it  every  year,  to  add  to  the  principal.     There  's  the  history  of  Miss  Rosa  Dartle  for  you.' 

'  And  I  have  no  doubt  she  loves  you  like  a  brother  ?  '  said  I. 

'  Humph  !  '  retorted  Steerforth,  looking  at  the  fire.  '  Some  brothers  are  not  loved 
over  much  ;  and  some  love — but  help  yourself,  Copperfield  !  W^e  'II  drink  the  daisies 
of  the  field,  in  compliment  to  you  ;  and  the  lilies  of  the  valley  that  toil  not,  neither  do 
they  spin,  in  compliment  to  me — the  more  shame  for  me  !  '  A  moody  smile  that  had 
overspread  his  features  cleared  off  as  he  said  this  merrily,  and  he  was  his  own  frank, 
winning  self  again. 

I  could  not  help  glancing  at  the  scar  with  a  painful  interest  when  we  went  in 
to  tea.  It  was  not  long  before  I  observed  that  it  was  the  most  susceptible  part  of  her 
face,  and  that,  when  she  turned  pale,  that  mark  altered  first,  and  became  a  dull, 
lead-coloured  streak,  lengthening  out  to  its  full  extent,  like  a  mark  in  invisible  ink 
brought  to  the  fire.  There  was  a  little  altercation  between  her  and  Steerforth  about 
a  cast  of  the  dice  at  backgammon,  when  I  thought  her,  for  one  moment,  in  a  storm  of 
rage  ;  and  then  I  saw  it  start  forth  like  the  old  writing  on  the  wall. 

It  was  no  matter  of  wonder  to  me  to  find  Mrs.  Steerforth  devoted  to  her  son. 
She  seemed  to  be  able  to  speak  or  think  about  nothing  else.  She  showed  me  his  picture 
as  an  infant,  in  a  locket,  with  some  of  his  baby-hair  in  it ;  she  showed  me  his  picture 
as  he  had  been  when  I  first  knew  him  ;  and  she  wore  at  her  breast  his  picture  as  he 
was  now.  All  the  letters  he  had  ever  written  to  her,  she  kept  in  a  cabinet  near  her 
own  chair  by  the  fire  ;  and  she  would  have  read  me  some  of  them,  and  I  should  have 
been  very  glad  to  hear  them  too,  if  he  had  not  interposed,  and  coaxed  her  out  of 
the  design. 

'  It  was  at  Mr.  Creakle's,  my  son  tells  me,  that  you  first  became  acquainted,' 
said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  as  she  and  I  were  talking  at  one  table,  while  they  played  back- 
gammon at  another.  '  Indeed,  I  recollect  his  speaking,  at  that  time,  of  a  pupil  younger 
than  himself  who  had  taken  his  fancy  there  ;  but  your  name,  as  you  may  suppose, 
has  not  lived  in  my  memory.' 

'  He  was  very  generous  and  noble  to  me  in  those  days,  I  assure  you,  ma'am,' 
said  I,  '  and  I  stood  in  need  of  such  a  friend.  I  should  have  been  quite  crushed  with- 
out him.' 

'  He  is  always  generous  and  noble,'  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  proudly. 


192  DAVID  OOPPERFIELD 

I  subscribed  to  this  with  all  my  heart,  God  knows.  She  knew  I  did  ;  for  the 
stateliness  of  her  manner  already  abated  towards  me,  except  when  she  spoke  in  praise 
of  him,  and  then  her  air  was  always  lofty. 

'  It  was  not  a  fit  school  generally  for  my  son,'  said  she  ;  '  far  from  it ;  but  there 
were  particular  circumstances  to  be  considered  at  the  time,  of  more  importance  even 
than  that  selection.  My  son's  high  spirit  made  it  desirable  that  he  should  be  placed 
with  some  man  who  felt  its  superiority,  and  would  be  content  to  bow  himself  before  it  ; 
and  we  found  such  a  man  there.' 

I  knew  that,  knowing  the  fellow.  And  yet  I  did  not  despise  him  the  more  for  it, 
but  thought  it  a  redeeming  quality  in  him,  if  he  could  be  allowed  any  grace  for  not 
resisting  one  so  irresistible  as  Steerforth. 

'  My  son's  great  capacity  was  tempted  on,  there,  by  a  feeling  of  voluntary  emula- 
tion and  conscious  pride,'  the  fond  lady  went  on  to  say.  '  He  would  have  risen  against 
all  constraint  ;  but  he  found  himself  the  monarch  of  the  place,  and  he  haughtily 
determined  to  be  worthy  of  his  station.     It  was  like  himself.' 

I  echoed,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  that  it  was  like  himself. 

'  So  my  son  took,  of  his  own  will,  and  on  no  compulsion,  to  the  course  in  which 
he  can  always,  when  it  is  his  pleasure,  outstrip  every  competitor,'  she  pm-sued.  '  My 
son  informs  me,  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  you  were  quite  devoted  to  him,  and  that  when 
you  met  yesterday  you  made  yourself  known  to  him  with  tears  of  joy.  I  should  be 
an  affected  woman  if  I  made  any  pretence  of  being  surprised  by  my  son's  inspiring 
such  emotions  ;  but  I  cannot  be  indifferent  to  any  one  who  is  so  sensible  of  his  merit, 
and  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  here,  and  can  assure  you  that  he  feels  an  unusual 
friendship  for  you,  and  that  you  may  rely  on  his  protection.' 

Miss  Dartle  played  backganunon  as  eagerly  as  she  did  everything  else.  If  I  had 
seen  her,  first,  at  the  board,  I  should  have  fancied  that  her  figure  had  got  thin,  and  her 
eyes  had  got  large,  over  that  pursuit,  and  no  other  in  the  world.  But  I  am  very  much 
mistaken  if  she  missed  a  word  of  this,  or  lost  a  look  of  mine  as  I  received  it  with  the 
utmost  pleasure,  and,  honoured  by  Mrs.  Steerforth's  confidence,  felt  older  than  I  had 
done  since  I  left  Canterbury. 

When  the  evening  was  pretty  far  spent,  and  a  tray  of  glasses  and  decanters  came 
in,  Steerforth  promised,  over  the  fire,  that  he  would  seriously  think  of  going  down 
into  the  country  with  me.  There  was  no  hurry,  he  said  ;  a  week  hence  would  do  ; 
and  his  mother  hospitably  said  the  same.  While  we  were  talking,  he  more  than  once 
called  me  Daisy  ;    which  brought  Miss  Dartle  out  again. 

'  But  really,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  she  asked,  '  is  it  a  nickname  ?  And  why  does  he 
give  it  you  ?  Is  it — eh  ? — because  he  thinks  you  young  and  innocent  ?  I  am  so  stupid 
in  these  things.' 

I  coloured  in  replying  that  I  believed  it  was. 

'  Oh  !  '  said  Miss  Dartle.  '  Now  I  am  glad  to  know  that  !  I  ask  for  information, 
and  I  am  glad  to  know  it.  He  thinks  you  young  and  innocent ;  and  so  you  are  his 
friend  ?     Well,  that 's  quite  delightful  !  ' 

She  went  to  bed  soon  after  this,  and  Mrs.  Steerforth  retired  too.  Steerforth  and 
I,  after  lingering  for  half  an  hour  over  the  fire,  talking  about  Traddles  and  all  the 
rest  of  them  at  old  Salem  House,  went  upstairs  together.  Steerforth's  room  was  next 
to  mine,  and  I  went  in  to  look  at  it.  It  was  a  picture  of  comfort,  full  of  easy-chairs, 
cushions  and  footstools,  worked  by  his  mother's  hand,  and  with  no  sort  of  thing 
omitted  that  could  help  to  render  it  complete.     Finally,  her  handsome  features  looked 


LITTLE  KM'LV  193 

down  on  her  darliiij,'  from  a  portrait  on  the  wall,  as  if  it  were  even  something  to  lier 
that  her  likeness  should  watch  him  while  he  slei)t. 

I  found  the  fire  burning  clear  enough  in  my  room  by  this  time,  and  the  curtains 
drawn  before  the  windows  and  round  the  bed,  giving  it  a  very  snug  appearance.  I 
sat  down  in  a  great  chair  upon  the  hearth  to  meditate  on  my  hapj)incss  ;  and  had 
enjoyed  the  contemplation  of  it  for  some  time,  when  I  foun<l  a  likeness  of  Miss  Dartle 
looking  eagerly  at  me  from  above  the  chimney-[)ie(f. 

It  was  a  stratling  likeness,  and  necessarily  had  a  startling  look.  The  painter 
hadn't  made  the  sear,  but  /  made  it ;  and  there  it  was,  coming  and  going  :  now 
confined  to  the  upper  lip  as  T  had  seen  it  at  diruier,  and  now  showing  the  whole  extent 
of  the  wound  inllicted  by  the  hammer,  as  1  had  seen  it  when  she  was  passionate. 

I  wondered  peevishly  why  they  couldn't  put  her  anywhere  else  instead  of 
cjuartering  her  on  me.  To  get  rid  of  her,  I  undressed  quickly,  extinguished  my  light, 
and  went  to  bed.  But,  as  1  fell  asleep,  I  could  not  forget  that  she  was  still  there 
looking,  '  Is  it  really,  though  ?  I  want  to  know  '  ;  and  when  I  awoke  in  the  night, 
I  found  that  I  was  uneasily  asking  all  sorts  of  people  in  my  dreams  where  it  really  was 
or  not — without  knowing  what  I  meant. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

LITTLE    EMLV 

THERE  was  a  servant  in  that  house,  a  man  who,  I  understood,  was  usually 
with  Steerforth,  and  had  come  into  his  service  at  the  University,  who  was 
in  appearance  a  pattern  of  respectability.  I  believe  there  never  existed 
in  his  station,  a  more  respectable-looking  man.  He  was  taciturn,  soft- 
footed,  very  quiet  in  his  manner,  deferential,  observant,  always  at  hand  when  wanted, 
and  never  near  when  not  wanted  ;  but  his  great  claim  to  consideration  was  his  respecta- 
bility. He  had  not  a  pliant  face,  he  had  rather  a  stiff  neck,  rather  a  tight  smooth  head 
with  short  hair  clinging  to  it  at  the  sides,  a  soft  way  of  speaking,  with  a  peculiar  habit 
of  whispering  the  letter  S  so  distinctly,  that  he  seemed  to  use  it  oftener  than  any  other 
man  ;  but  every  peculiarity  that  he  had  he  made  respectable.  If  his  nose  had  been 
upside-down,  he  would  have  made  that  respectable.  He  surrounded  himself  with  an 
atmosphere  of  respectability,  and  walked  secure  in  it.  It  would  have  been  next  to 
impossible  to  suspect  him  of  anything  wrong,  he  was  so  thoroughly  respectable. 
Nobody  could  have  thought  of  putting  him  in  a  livery,  he  was  so  highly  respectable. 
To  have  imposed  any  derogatory  work  upon  him,  would  have  been  to  inflict  a  wanton 
insult  on  the  feelings  of  a  most  respectable  man.  And  of  this,  I  noticed  the  women- 
servants  in  the  household  were  so  intuitively  conscious,  that  they  always  did  such 
work  themselves,  and  generally  while  he  read  the  paper  by  the  pantry  fire. 

Such  a  self-contained  man  I  never  saw.  But  in  that  quality,  as  in  every  other 
he  possessed,  he  only  seemed  to  be  the  more  respectable.  Even  the  fact  that  no  one 
knew  his  Christian  name,  seemed  to  form  a  part  of  his  respectability.  Nothing  could 
be  objected  against  his  surname,  Littimer,  by  which  he  was  known.  Peter  might 
have  been  hanged,  or  Tom  transported  ;    but  Littimer  was  perfectly  respectable. 

It  was  occasioned,  I  suppose,  by  the  reverend  nature  of  respectability  in  the 


194  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

abstract,  but  I  felt  particularly  young  in  this  man's  presence.  How  old  he  was 
himself,  I  could  not  guess.  And  that  again  went  to  his  credit  on  the  same  score ;  for 
in  the  calmness  of  respectability  he  might  have  numbered  fifty  years  as  well  as  thirty. 

Littimer  was  in  my  room  in  the  morning  before  I  was  up,  to  bring  me  that 
reproachful  shaving-water,  and  to  put  out  my  clothes.  When  I  undrew  the  curtains 
and  looked  out  of  bed,  I  saw  him,  in  an  equable  temperatiu-e  of  respectability,  unaffected 
by  the  east  wind  of  January,  and  not  even  breathing  frostily,  standing  my  boots  right 
and  left  in  the  first  dancing  position,  and  blowing  specks  of  dust  off  my  coat  as  he  laid 
it  down  like  a  baby. 

I  gave  him  good  morning,  and  asked  him  what  o'clock  it  was.  He  took  out  of 
his  pocket  the  most  respectable  hunting-watch  I  ever  saw,  and  preventing  the  spring 
with  his  thumb  from  opening  far,  looked  in  at  the  face  as  if  he  were  consulting  an 
oracular  oyster,  shut  it  up  again,  and  said,  if  I  pleased,  it  was  half-past  eight. 

'  Mr.  Steerforth  will  be  glad  to  hear  how  you  have  rested,  sir.' 

*  Thank  you,'  said  I,  '  very  well  indeed.     Is  Mr.  Steerforth  quite  well  ?  ' 

'  Thank  you,  sir,  Mr.  Steerforth  is  tolerably  well.'  Another  of  his  characteristics. 
No  use  of  superlatives.     A  cool  calm  medium  always. 

'  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  have  the  honour  of  doing  for  you,  sir  ?  The 
warning  bell  will  ring  at  nine  ;   the  family  take  breakfast  at  half-past  nine.' 

'  Nothing,  I  thank  you.' 

'  I  thank  you,  sir,  if  you  please  '  ;  and  with  that,  and  with  a  little  inclination  of 
his  head  when  he  passed  the  bedside,  as  an  apology  for  correcting  me,  he  went  out, 
shutting  the  door  as  delicately  as  if  I  had  just  fallen  into  a  sweet  sleep  on  which  my 
life  depended. 

Every  morning  we  held  exactly  this  conversation  :  never  any  more,  and  never 
any  less  ;  and  yet,  invariably,  however  far  I  might  have  been  lifted  out  of  myself 
overnight,  and  advanced  towards  maturer  years,  by  Steerforth's  companionship,  or 
Mrs.  Steerforth's  confidence,  or  Miss  Dartle's  conversation,  in  the  presence  of  this 
most  respectable  man,  I  became,  as  our  smaller  poets  sing,  '  a  boy  again.' 

He  got  horses  for  us  ;  and  Steerforth,  who  knew  everything,  gave  me  lessons  in 
riding.  He  provided  foils  for  us,  and  Steerforth  gave  me  lessons  in  fencing — gloves, 
and  I  began,  of  the  same  master,  to  improve  in  boxing.  It  gave  me  no  manner  of 
concern  that  Steerforth  should  find  me  a  novice  in  these  sciences,  but  I  never  could 
bear  to  show  my  want  of  skill  before  the  respectable  Littimer.  I  had  no  reason  to 
believe  that  Littimer  understood  such  arts  himself  ;  he  never  led  me  to  suppose  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  by  so  much  as  the  vibration  of  one  of  his  respectable  eye-lashes  ; 
yet  whenever  he  was  by,  while  we  were  practising,  I  felt  myself  the  greenest  and  most 
inexperienced  of  mortals. 

I  am  particular  about  this  man,  because  he  made  a  particular  effect  on  me  at  that 
time,  and  because  of  what  took  place  thereafter. 

The  week  passed  away  in  a  most  delightful  manner.  It  passed  rapidly,  as  may  be 
supposed,  to  one  entranced  as  I  was  ;  and  yet  it  gave  me  so  many  occasions  for  knowing 
Steerforth  better,  and  admiring  him  more  in  a  thousand  respects,  that  at  its  close  I 
seemed  to  have  been  with  him  for  a  much  longer  time.  A  dashing  way  he  had  of 
treating  me  like  a  plaything,  was  more  agreeable  to  me  than  any  behaviour  he  could 
have  adopted.  It  reminded  me  of  our  old  acquaintance  ;  it  seemed  the  natural  sequel 
of  it ;  it  showed  me  that  he  was  unchanged  ;  it  relieved  me  of  any  uneasiness  I  might 
have  felt,  in  comparing  my  merits  with  his,  and  measuring  my  claims  upon  his  friendship 


J 


LFTTLi:   I:M  LV  195 

by  any  equal  standard  ;  ahove  all,  it  was  a  familiar,  unrestrained,  affectionate  de- 
meanour that  he  used  towards  no  one  else.  As  he  had  treated  me  at  school  differently 
from  all  the  rest,  I  joyfully  believed  that  he  treated  me  in  life  imlike  any  other  friend 
he  had.  I  believed  that  I  was  nearer  to  his  heart  than  any  other  friend,  and  my  own 
heart  warmed  with  attachment  to  liim. 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  go  with  me  into  the  country,  and  the  day  arrived  for  our 
departure.  He  had  been  doubtful  at  first  whether  to  take  Littimer  or  not,  but  decided 
to  leave  him  at  home.  The  respectable  creature,  satisfied  with  his  lot  wliatever  it  was, 
arranged  our  portmanteaus  on  the  little  carriage  that  was  to  take  us  into  London,  as 
if  they  were  intended  to  defy  the  shocks  of  ages  ;  and  received  my  modestly  proffered 
donation  with  perfect  tranquillity. 

We  bade  adieu  to  Mrs.  Steerforth  and  Miss  Uartle,  with  many  thanks  on  my  part, 
and  much  kindness  on  the  devoted  mother's.  The  last  thing  I  saw  was  Littimer's 
unruffled  eye  ;  fraught,  as  I  fancied,  with  the  silent  conviction  that  I  was  very  young 
indeed. 

What  I  felt,  in  returning  so  auspiciously  to  the  old  familiar  places,  I  shall  not 
endeavour  to  describe.  We  went  down  by  the  mail.  I  Avas  so  concerned,  I  recollect, 
even  for  the  honour  of  Yarmouth,  that  when  Steerforth  said,  as  we  drove  through  its 
dark  streets  to  the  inn,  that,  as  well  as  he  could  make  out,  it  was  a  good,  queer,  out-of- 
the-way  kind  of  hole,  I  was  highly  pleased.  We  went  to  bed  on  our  arrival  (I  observed 
a  pair  of  dirty  shoes  and  gaiters  in  connection  with  my  old  friend  the  Dolphin  as  we 
passed  that  door),  and  breakfasted  late  in  the  morning.  Steerforth,  who  was  in  great 
spirits,  had  been  strolling  about  the  beach  before  I  was  up,  and  had  made  acquaintance, 
he  said,  with  half  the  boatmen  in  the  place.  Moreover,  he  had  seen,  in  the  distance, 
what  he  was  sure  must  be  the  identical  house  of  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  smoke  coming 
out  of  the  chimney  ;  and  had  had  a  great  mind,  he  told  me,  to  walk  in  and  swear  he 
was  myself  grown  out  of  knowledge. 

'  When  do  you  propose  to  introduce  me  there,  Daisy  ?  '  he  said.  '  I  am  at  your 
disposal.     Make  your  own  arrangements.' 

'  Why,  I  was  thinking  that  this  evening  would  be  a  good  time,  Steerforth,  when 
they  are  all  sitting  round  the  fire.  I  should  like  you  to  see  it  when  it 's  snug,  it 's  such 
a  curious  place.' 

'  So  be  it  !  '  returned  Steerforth.     '  This  evening.' 

'  I  shall  not  give  them  any  notice  that  we  are  here,  you  know,'  said  I,  delighted. 
'  We  must  take  them  by  surprise.' 

'  Oh,  of  course  !  It  *s  no  fun,'  said  Steerforth,  '  unless  we  take  them  by  surprise. 
Let  us  see  the  natives  in  their  aboriginal  condition.' 

'  Though  they  are  that  sort  of  people  that  you  mentioned,'  I  returned. 

'  Aha  !  What  !  you  recollect  my  skirmishes  with  Rosa,  do  you  ?  '  he  exclaimed 
with  a  quick  look.  '  Confound  the  girl,  I  am  half  afraid  of  her.  She  's  like  a  goblin 
to  me.  But  never  mind  her.  Now  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  You  are  going  to  see 
your  nurse,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  Why,  yes,'  I  said,  '  I  must  see  Peggotty  first  of  all.' 

'  Well,'  replied  Steerforth,  looking  at  his  watch.  '  Suppose  I  deliver  you  up  to  be 
cried  over  for  a  couple  of  hours.     Is  that  long  enough  ?  ' 

I  answered,  laughing,  that  I  thought  we  might  get  through  it  in  that  time,  but 
that  he  must  come  also  ;  for  he  would  find  that  his  renown  had  preceded  him,  and  that 
he  was  almost  as  great  a  personage  as  I  was. 


196  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  I  '11  come  anywhere  you  like,'  said  Steerforth,  '  or  do  anything  you  like.  Tell 
me  where  to  come  to  ;  and  in  two  hours  I  '11  produce  myself  in  any  state  you  please, 
sentimental  or  comical.' 

I  gave  him  minute  directions  for  finding  the  residence  of  Mr.  Barkis,  carrier  to 
Blunderstone  and  elsewhere  ;  and,  on  this  understanding,  went  out  alone.  There  was 
a  sharp  bracing  air  ;  the  ground  was  dry  ;  the  sea  was  crisp  and  clear  ;  the  sun  was 
diffusing  abundance  of  light,  if  not  much  warmth  ;  and  everything  was  fresh  and 
lively.  I  was  so  fresh  and  lively  myself,  in  the  pleasure  of  being  there,  that  I  could 
have  stopped  the  people  in  the  streets  and  shaken  hands  with  them. 

The  streets  looked  small,  of  course.  The  streets  that  we  have  only  seen  as  children 
always  do,  I  believe,  when  we  go  back  to  them.  But  I  had  forgotten  nothing  in  them, 
and  found  nothing  changed,  until  I  came  to  Mr.  Omer's  shop.  Omer  and  Joram 
was  now  written  up,  where  Omer  used  to  be  ;  but  the  inscription.  Draper,  Tailor, 
Haberdasher,  Funeral  Furnisher,  »S:.c.,  remained  as  it  was. 

My  footsteps  seemed  to  tend  so  naturally  to  the  shop-door,  after  I  had  read  these 
words  from  over  the  way,  that  I  went  across  the  road  and  looked  in.  There  was  a 
pretty  woman  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  dancing  a  little  child  in  her  arms,  while  another 
little  fellow  clung  to  her  apron.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  recognising  either  Minnie  or 
Minnie's  children.  The  glass  door  of  the  parlour  was  not  open  ;  but  in  the  workshop 
across  the  yard  I  could  faintly  hear  the  old  tune  playing,  as  if  it  had  never  left  off. 

'  Is  Mr.  Omer  at  home  ?  '  said  I,  entering.  '  I  should  like  to  see  him,  for  a  moment, 
if  he  is.' 

'  Oh  yes,  sir,  he  is  at  home,'  said  Minnie  :  '  this  weather  don't  suit  his  asthma 
out  of  doors.     Joe,  call  your  grandfather  ! ' 

The  little  fellow,  who  was  holding  her  apron,  gave  such  a  lusty  shout,  that  the 
sound  of  it  made  him  bashful,  and  he  buried  his  face  in  her  skirts,  to  her  great  admira- 
tion. I  heard  a  heavy  puffing  and  blowing  coming  towards  us,  and  soon  Mr.  Omer, 
shorter-winded  than  of  yore,  but  not  much  older-looking,  stood  before  me. 

'  Servant,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Omer.     '  What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir  ?  ' 

'  You  can  shake  hands  with  me,  Mr.  Omer,  if  you  please,'  said  I,  putting  out 
my  own.  '  You  were  very  good-natured  to  me  once,  when  I  am  afraid  I  didn't  show 
that  I  thought  so.' 

'  Was  I  though  ?  '  returned  the  old  man.  '  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it,  but  I  don't 
remember  when.     Are  you  sure  it  was  me  ?  ' 

'  Quite.' 

'  I  think  my  memory  has  got  as  short  as  my  breath,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  looking  at 
me  and  shaking  his  head  ;   '  for  I  don't  remember  you.' 

'  Don't  you  remember  your  coming  to  the  coach  to  meet  me,  and  my  having 
breakfast  here,  and  our  riding  out  to  Blunderstone  together  :  you,  and  I,  and  Mrs. 
Joram,  and  Mr.  Joram  too — who  wasn't  her  husband  then  ?  ' 

'  Why,  Lord  bless  my  soul  !  '  exclaimed  Mr.  Omer,  after  being  thrown  by  his 
surprise  into  a  fit  of  coughing,  '  you  don't  say  so  !  Minnie,  my  dear,  you  recollect  ? 
Dear  me,  yes  ;  the  party  was  a  lady,  I  think  ?  ' 

'  My  mother,'  I  rejoined. 

'  To — be — sure,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  touching  my  waistcoat  with  his  forefinger,  '  and 
there  was  a  little  child  too  !  There  was  two  parties.  The  little  party  was  laid  along 
with  the  other  party.  Over  at  Blunderstone  it  was,  of  course.  Dear  me  !  And 
how  have  you  been  since  ?  ' 


t.ittfj:  i:m'ly  107 

Very  well,  I  thanked  him,  as  I  hoped  lie  had  been  too. 

'  Oh  !  nothing;  to  fjniiiihle  at,  yoii  know,'  said  Mr.  Onier.  '  I  find  my  breath 
gets  short,  but  it  seldom  {jets  longer  as  a  man  gets  older.  I  take  it  as  it  comes,  and 
make  the  most  of  it.     That  's  the  best  way,  ain't  it  ?  ' 

Mr.  Omer  conghed  again,  in  consequence  of  laughing,  and  was  assisted  out  of  his 
fit  by  his  daughter,  who  now  stood  close  beside  ns,  dancing  her  smallest  child  on  the 
counter. 

'  Dear  me  !  '  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Two  parties  !  ^^^ly,  in  that  very 
ride,  if  you  '11  believe  me,  the  day  was  named  for  my  Minnie  to  marry  Joram.  "  Do 
name  it,  sir,"  says  Joram.  "  Yes,  do,  father,"  says  Minnie.  And  now  he  's  come  into 
the  business.     And  look  here  !     The  yotmgest  !  ' 

Minnie  latighed,  and  stroked  her  banded  hair  upon  her  temples,  as  her  father 
put  one  of  his  fat  fingers  into  the  hand  of  the  child  she  was  dancing  on  the  counter. 

'  Two  parties,  of  course  !  '  said  Mr.  Omer,  nodding  his  head  retrospectively. 
'  Ex-actly  so  !  And  Joram  's  at  work,  at  this  minute,  on  a  grey  one  with  silver  nails, 
not  this  measurement ' — the  measurement  of  the  dancing  child  upon  the  counter — 
'  ^^y  ^  good  two  inches.     Will  you  take  something  ?  ' 

I  thanked  him,  but  declined. 

'  Let  me  see,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  Barkis's  the  carrier's  wife — Peggotty's  the  boat- 
man's sister — she  had  something  to  do  with  your  family  ?  She  was  in  service  there, 
sure  ?  ' 

My  answering  in  the  alhrmative  gave  him  great  satisfaction. 

'  I  believe  my  breath  will  get  long  next,  my  memory  's  getting  so  much  so,'  said 
Mr.  Omer.  '  Well,  sir,  we  've  got  a  young  relation  of  hers  here,  imder  articles  to  us, 
that  has  as  elegant  a  taste  in  the  dressmaking  business— I  assure  you  I  don't  believe 
there  's  a  duchess  in  England  can  touch  her.' 

'  Not  little  Em'ly  ?  '  said  I.  involuntarily. 

'  f^m'ly  's  her  name,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  '  and  she 's  little  too.  '  But  if  you  '11  believe  me, 
she  has  such  a  face  of  her  own  that  half  the  women  in  this  town  are  mad  against  her.' 

'  Nonsense,  father  !  '  cried  Minnie.  • 

'  My  dear.'  said  Mr.  Omer,  '  I  don't  say  it 's  the  case  with  you,'  winking  at  me, 
'  but  I  say  that  half  the  women  in  Yarmouth,  ah  !  and  in  five  mile  round,  are  mad 
against  that  girl.' 

'  Then  she  should  have  kept  to  her  own  station  in  life,  father,'  said  Minnie.  '  and 
not  have  given  them  any  hold  to  talk  about  her.  and  then  they  couldn't  have  done  it.' 

'  Couldn't  have  done  it,  my  dear  !  '  retorted  Mr.  Omer.  '  Couldn't  have  done  it  I 
Is  that  your  knowledge  of  life  ?  What  is  there  that  any  woman  couldn't  do,  that  she 
shouldn't  do — especially  on  the  subject  of  another  woman's  good  looks  ?  ' 

I  really  thought  it  was  all  over  with  Mr.  Omer,  after  he  had  uttered  this  libellous 
pleasantry.  He  coughed  to  that  extent,  and  his  breath  eluded  all  his  attempts  to 
recover  it  with  that  obstinacy,  that  I  fully  expected  to  see  his  head  go  down  behind 
the  counter,  and  his  little  black  breeches,  with  the  rusty  little  hunches  of  ribbons 
at  the  knees,  come  quivering  up  in  a  last  ineffectual  struggle.  At  length,  however,  he 
got  better,  though  he  still  panted  hard,  and  was  so  exhausted  that  he  was  obliged  to 
sit  on  the  stool  of  the  shop-desk. 

'  You  see,'  he  said,  wiping  his  head,  and  breathing  with  difficulty,  '  she  hasn't 
taken  much  to  any  companions  here  :  she  hasn't  taken  kindly  to  any  particular 
acquaintances  and  friends,  not  to  mention  sweethearts.     In  consequence,  an  ill-natured 


198  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

story  got  about,  that  Em'ly  wanted  to  be  a  lady.  Now,  my  opinion  is,  that  it  came 
into  circulation  principally  on  account  of  her  sometimes  saying  at  the  school,  that  if 
she  was  a  lady,  she  would  like  to  do  so-and-so  for  her  uncle — don't  you  see  ? — and 
buy  him  such-and-such  fine  things.' 

'  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Omer,  she  has  said  so  to  me,'  I  returned  eagerly,  '  when  we  were 
both  children.' 

Mr.  Omer  nodded  his  head  and  rubbed  his  chin.  '  Just  so.  Then  out  of  a  very 
little,  she  could  dress  herself,  you  see,  better  than  most  others  could  out  of  a  deal, 
and  that  made  things  unpleasant.  Moreover,  she  was  rather  what  might  be  called 
wayward.  I  'II  go  so  far  as  to  say  what  I  should  call  wayward  myself,'  said  Mr.  Omer ; 
'  didn't  know  her  own  mind  quite  ;  a  little  spoiled  ;  and  couldn't,  at  first,  exactly 
bind  herself  down.     No  more  than  that  was  ever  said  against  her,  Minnie  ?  ' 

'  No,  father,'  said  Mrs.  Joram.     '  That 's  the  worst,  I  believe.' 

'  So  when  she  got  a  situation,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  '  to  keep  a  fractious  old  lady 
company,  they  didn't  very  well  agree,  and  she  didn't  stop.  At  last  she  came  here, 
apprenticed  for  three  years.  Nearly  two  of  'em  are  over,  and  she  has  been  as  good  a 
girl  as  ever  was.     Worth  any  six  !     Minnie,  is  she  worth  any  six,  now  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  father,'  replied  Minnie.     '  Never  say  /  detracted  from  her  !  ' 

'  Very  good,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  That  's  right.  And  so,  young  gentleman,'  he 
added,  after  a  few  moments'  further  rubbing  of  his  chin,  '  that  you  may  not  consider 
me  long-winded  as  well  as  short-breathed,  I  believe  that  's  all  about  it.' 

As  they  had  spoken  in  a  subdued  tone,  while  speaking  of  Em'ly,  I  had  no  doubt 
that  she  was  near.  On  my  asking  now,  if  that  were  not  so,  Mr.  Omer  nodded  yes,  and 
nodded  towards  the  door  of  the  parlour.  My  hurried  inquiry  if  I  might  peep  in,  was 
answered  with  a  free  permission  ;  and,  looking  through  the  glass,  I  saw  her  sitting 
at  her  work.  I  saw  her,  a  most  beautiful  little  creature,  with  the  cloudless  blue  eyes, 
that  had  looked  into  my  childish  heart,  turned  laughingly  upon  another  child  of  Minnie's 
who  was  playing  near  her  ;  with  enough  of  wilfulness  in  her  bright  face  to  justify  what 
I  had  heard  ;  with  much  of  the  old  capricious  coyness  lurking  in  it ;  but  with  nothing 
in  her  pretty  looks,  I  am  sure,  but  what  was  meant  for  goodness  and  for  happiness,  and 
what  was  on  a  good  and  happy  course. 

The  tune  across  the  yard  that  seemed  as  if  it  never  had  left  off — alas  !  it  was  the 
tune  that  never  does  leave  off — was  beating,  softly,  all  the  while. 

'  Wouldn't  you  like  to  step  in,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  '  and  speak  to  her  ?  Walk  in  and 
speak  to  her,  sir  !     Make  yourself  at  home  !  ' 

I  was  too  bashful  to  do  so  then — I  was  afraid  of  confusing  her,  and  I  was  no 
less  afraid  of  confusing  myself  :  but  I  informed  myself  of  the  hour  at  which  she  left  of 
an  evening,  in  order  that  our  visit  might  be  timed  accordingly  ;  and  taking  leave 
of  Mr.  Omer,  and  his  pretty  daughter,  and  her  little  children,  went  away  to  my  dear 
old  Peggotty's. 

Here  she  was,  in  the  tiled  kitchen,  cooking  dinner  !  The  moment  I  knocked  at 
the  door  she  opened  it,  and  asked  me  what  I  pleased  to  want.  I  looked  at  her  with 
a  smile,  but  she  gave  me  no  smile  in  return.  I  had  never  ceased  to  write  to  her,  but 
it  must  have  been  seven  years  since  we  had  met. 

'  Is  Mr.  Barkis  at  home,  ma'am  ?  '  I  said,  feigning  to  speak  roughly  to  her. 

'  He  's  at  home,  sir,'  returned  Peggotty,  '  but  he  's  bad  abed  with  the  rheumatics.* 

'  Don't  he  go  over  to  Blunderstone  now  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  \Mien  he  's  well  he  do,'  she  answered. 


LITTLE  EM'LY  19J 

'  Do  you  ever  go  there,  Mrs.  Barkis  ?  ' 

She  looked  at  me  more  attentively,  and  I  notieed  a  quick  movement  of  her  hands 
towards  each  other. 

'  JJecause  I  want  to  ask  a  question  about  a  house  there,  that  they  call  the — 
what  is  it  ? — the  llookery,'  said  I. 

She  took  a  step  backward,  and  put  out  her  hands  in  an  undecided  frightened  way, 
as  if  to  keep  me  off. 

'  i'eggotty  !  '  I  cried  to  her. 

She  cried,  '  My  darling  boy  !  '  and  we  both  burst  into  tears,  and  were  locked  in 
one  another's  arms. 

What  extravagances  she  committed  ;  what  laughing  and  crying  over  me  ;  what 
pride  she  showed,  what  joy,  what  sorrow  that  she  whose  pride  and  joy  I  might  have 
been,  could  never  hold  me  in  a  fond  embrace  ;  I  have  not  the  heart  to  tell.  I  was 
troubled  with  no  misgiving  that  it  was  young  in  me  to  respond  to  her  emotions.  I  had 
never  laughed  and  cried  in  all  my  life,  I  dare  say,  not  even  to  her,  more  freely  than  I 
did  that  morning. 

'  Barkis  will  be  so  glad,'  said  Peggotty,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  apron,  '  that 
it  '11  do  him  more  good  than  pints  of  liniment.  May  I  go  and  tell  him  you  are  here  ? 
Will  you  come  up  and  see  him,  my  dear  ?  ' 

Of  course  I  would.  But  Peggotty  could  not  get  out  of  the  room  as  easily  as 
she  meant  to,  for  as  often  as  she  got  to  the  door  and  looked  round  at  me,  she  came 
back  again  to  have  another  laugh  and  another  cry  upon  my  shoulder.  At  last,  to 
make  the  matter  easier,  I  went  upstairs  with  her  ;  and  having  waited  outside  for  a 
minute,  while  she  said  a  word  of  preparation  to  Mr.  Barkis,  presented  myself  before 
that  invalid. 

He  received  me  with  absolute  enthusiasm.  He  was  too  rheumatic  to  be  shaken 
hands  with,  but  he  begged  me  to  shake  the  tassel  on  the  top  of  his  night-cap,  which  I 
did  most  cordially.  When  I  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  he  said  that  it  did  him  a 
world  of  good  to  feel  as  if  he  was  driving  me  on  the  Blunderstone  road  again.  As  he  lay 
in  bed,  face  upward,  and  so  covered,  with  that  exception,  that  he  seemed  to  be  nothing 
but  a  face — like  a  conventional  cherubim — he  looked  the  queerest  object  I  ever  beheld. 

'  What  name  was  it  as  I  wrote  up  in  the  cart,  sir  ?  '  said  Mr.  Barkis,  with  a  slow 
rheumatic  smile. 

'  Ah  !  Mr.  Barkis,  we  had  some  grave  talks  about  that  matter,  hadn't  we  ?  ' 

'  I  was  willin'  a  long  time,  sir  ?  '  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

'  A  long  time,'  said  I. 

'  And  I  don't  regret  it,'  said  Mr.  Barkis.  '  Do  you  remember  what  you  told  me 
once,  about  her  making  all  the  apple  parsties  and  doing  all  the  cooking  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  very  well,'  I  returned. 

'  It  was  as  true,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  '  as  turnips  is.  It  was  as  true,'  said  Mr.  Barkis, 
nodding  his  night-cap,  which  was  his  only  means  of  emphasis,  '  as  ta.xes  is.  And 
nothing  's  truer  than  them.' 

Mr.  Barkis  turned  his  eyes  upon  me,  as  if  for  my  assent  to  this  result  of  his 
reflections  in  bed  ;  and  I  gave  it. 

'  Nothing  's  truer  than  them,'  repeated  Mr.  Barkis  ;  '  a  man  as  poor  as  I  am, 
finds  that  out  in  his  mind  when  he  's  laid  up.     I  'm  a  very  poor  man,  sir  ?  ' 

'  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Barkis.* 

'  A  very  poor  man,  indeed  I  am,'  said  Mr.  Barkis. 


200  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Here  his  right  hand  came  slowly  and  feebly  from  under  the  bed-clothes,  and 
with  a  purposeless  uncertain  grasp  took  hold  of  a  stick  which  was  loosely  tied  to  the 
side  of  the  bed.  After  some  poking  about  with  this  instrument,  in  the  course  of  which 
his[face  assumed  a  variety  of  distracted  expressions,  Mr.  Barkis  poked  it  against  a  box, 
an  end  of  which  had  been  visible  to  me  all  the  time.     Then  his  face  became  composed. 

'  Old  clothes,'  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

'  Oh  !  '  said  I. 

'  I  wish  it  was  money,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

'  I  wish  it  was,  indeed,'  said  I. 

'  But  it  ain't,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  opening  both  his  eyes  as  wide  as  he  possibly 
could. 

I  expressed  myself  quite  sure  of  that,  and  Mr.  Barkis,  turning  his  eyes  more  gently 
to  his  wife,  said — 

'  She  's  the  usefuUest  and  best  of  women,  C.  P.  Barkis.  All  the  praise  that  any 
one  can  give  to  C.  P.  Barkis  she  deserves,  and  more  !  My  dear,  you  '11  get  a  dinner 
to-day,  for  company  ;   something  good  to  eat  and  drink,  will  you  ?  ' 

I  should  have  protested  against  this  unnecessary  demonstration  in  my  honour, 
but  that  I  saw  Peggotty,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed,  extremely  anxious  I  should 
not.     So  I  held  my  peace. 

'  I  have  got  a  trifle  of  money  somewhere  about  me,  my  dear,'  said  Mr.  Barkis,  '  but 
I  'm  a  little  tired.  If  you  and  Mr.  David  will  leave  me  for  a  short  nap,  I  '11  try  and  find 
it  when  I  wake.' 

We  left  the  room,  in  compliance  with  this  request.  When  we  got  outside  the 
door,  Peggotty  informed  me  that  Mr.  Barkis,  being  now  '  a  little  nearer  '  than  he  used 
to  be,  always  resorted  to  this  same  device  before  producing  a  single  coin  from  his 
store  ;  and  that  he  endured  unheard-of  agonies  in  crawling  out  of  bed  alone,  and 
taking  if  from  that  imlucky  box.  In  effect,  we  presently  heard  him  uttering  suppressed 
groans  of  the  most  dismal  nature,  as  this  magpie  proceeding  racked  him  in  every 
joint ;  but  while  Peggotty's  eyes  were  full  of  compassion  for  him,  she  said  his  generous 
impulse  would  do  him  good,  and  it  was  better  not  to  check  it.  So  he  groaned  on, 
tmtil  he  had  got  into  bed  again,  suffering,  I  have  no  doubt,  a  martyrdom  ;  and  then 
called  us  in,  pretending  to  have  just  woke  up  from  a  refreshing  sleep,  and  to  produce  a 
guinea  from  under  his  pillow.  His  satisfaction  in  which  happy  imposition  on  us,  and 
in  having  preserved  the  impenetrable  secret  of  the  box,  appeared  to  be  a  sufficient 
compensation  to  him  for  all  his  tortures. 

I  prepared  Peggotty  for  Steerforth's  arrival,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  came. 
I  am  persuaded  she  knew  no  difference  between  his  having  been  a  personal  benefactor 
of  hers  and  a  kind  friend  to  me,  and  that  she  would  have  received  him  with  the  utmost 
gratitude  and  devotion  in  any  case.  But  his  easy,  spirited  good-humour  ;  his  genial 
manner,  his  handsome  looks,  his  natural  gift  of  adapting  himself  to  whomseover  he 
pleased,  and  making  direct,  when  he  cared  to  do  it,  to  the  main  point  of  interest  in 
anybody's  heart ;  bound  her  to  him  wholly  in  five  minutes.  His  manner  to  me,  alone, 
would  have  won  her.  But,  through  all  these  causes  combined,  I  sincerely  believe  she 
had  a  kind  of  adoration  for  him  before  he  left  the  house  that  night. 

He  stayed  there  with  me  to  dinner — if  I  were  to  say  willingly,  I  should  not  half 
express  how  readily  and  gaily.  He  went  into  Mr.  Barkis's  room  like  light  and  air, 
brightening  and  refreshing  it  as  if  he  were  healthy  weather.  There  was  no  noise,  no 
effort,  no  consciousness,   in  anything  he  did  ;    but  in  everything  an  indescribable 


LITTLE  EM'LY  201 

lightness,  a  seeming  impossibility  of  doing  anything  else,  or  doing  anything  better, 
which  was  so  graceful,  so  natural,  and  agreeable,  that  it  overcomes  me,  even  now,  in 
the  remembnuice. 

We  imidc  merry  in  the  little  parlour,  where  the  lUnjk  of  Martyrs,  unthumbed 
since  my  time,  was  laid  out  upon  the  desk  as  of  old,  and  where  I  now  turned  over 
its  terrific  pictures,  remembering  the  old  sensations  they  had  awakened,  but  not  feeling 
them.  When  Peggotty  spoke  of  what  she  called  my  room,  and  of  its  being  ready  for 
me  at  night,  and  of  her  hoping  I  would  occupy  it,  before  I  could  so  much  as  look  at 
Steerforth,  hesitating,  he  was  possessed  of  the  whole  case. 

'  Of  course,'  he  said.  '  You  Ml  .sleep  here,  while  we  stay,  and  I  shall  sleep  at  the 
hotel.' 

'  But  to  bring  you  so  far,'  I  returned,  '  and  to  separate,  seems  bad  companionship, 
Steerforth.' 

'  Why,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  where  do  you  naturally  belong  !  '  he  said.  '  What 
is  "  seems,"  compared  to  that  !  '     It  was  settled  at  once. 

He  maintained  all  his  delightful  qualities  to  the  last,  until  we  started  forth,  at 
eight  o'clock,  for  Mr.  Peggotty's  boat.  Indeed,  they  were  more  and  more  brightly 
exhibited  as  the  hours  went  on  ;  for  I  thought  even  then,  and  I  have  no  doubt  now, 
that  the  consciousness  of  success  in  his  determination  to  please,  inspired  him  with  a  new 
delicacy  of  perception,  and  made  it,  subtle  as  it  was,  more  easy  to  him.  If  any  one 
had  told  me,  then,  that  all  this  was  a  brilliant  game,  played  for  the  excitement  of 
the  moment,  for  the  employment  of  high  spirits,  in  the  thoughtless  love  of  superiority, 
in  a  mere  wasteful  careless  course  of  winning  what  was  worthless  to  him,  and  next 
minute  thrown  away  I  say,  if  any  one  had  told  me  such  a  lie  that  night,  I  wonder 
in  what  manner  of  receiving  it  my  indignation  would  have  found  a  vent ! 

Probably  only  in  an  increase,  had  that  been  possible,  of  the  romantic  feelings  of 
fidelity  and  friendship  with  which  I  walked  beside  him,  over  the  dark  wintry  sands, 
towards  the  old  boat ;  the  wind  sighing  around  us  even  more  mournfully  than  it  had 
sighed  and  moaned  upon  the  night  when  I  first  darkened  Mr.  Peggotty's  door. 

'  This  is  a  wild  kind  of  place,  Steerforth,  is  it  not  ?  ' 

'  Dismal  enough  in  the  dark,'  he  said  :  '  and  the  sea  roars  as  if  it  were  hungry 
for  us.     Is  that  the  boat,  where  I  see  a  light  yonder  ?  ' 

'  That 's  the  boat,'  said  I. 

'  And  it 's  the  same  I  saw  this  morning,'  he  returned.  '  I  came  straight  to  it,  by 
instinct,  I  suppose.' 

We  said  no  more  as  we  approached  the  light,  but  made  softly  for  the  door.  I  laid 
my  hand  upon  the  latch  ;   and  whispering  Steerforth  to  keep  close  to  me,  went  in. 

A  murmur  of  voices  had  been  audible  on  the  outside,  and,  at  the  moment  of 
our  entrance,  a  clapping  of  hands  :  which  latter  noise,  I  was  surprised  to  see,  proceeded 
from  the  generally  disconsolate  Mrs.  Gummidge.  But  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  not  the 
only  person  there  who  was  unusually  excited.  Mr.  Peggotty,  his  face  lighted  up  with 
uncommon  satisfaction,  and  laughing  with  all  his  might,  held  his  rough  arms  wide 
open,  as  if  for  little  Em'ly  to  run  into  them  ;  Ham,  with  a  mixed  expression  in  his 
face  of  admiration,  exultation,  and  a  lumbering  sort  of  bashfulness  that  sat  upon  him 
very  well,  held  little  Em'ly  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  presenting  her  to  Mr.  Peggotty  ; 
little  Em'ly  herself,  blushing  and  shy,  but  delighted  with  Mr.  Peggotty's  delight,  as 
her  joyous  eyes  expressed,  was  stopped  by  our  entrance  (for  she  saw  us  first)  in  the  very 
act  of  springing  from  Ham  to  nestle  in  Mr.  Peggotty's  embrace.     In  the  first  glimpse 


202  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

we  had  of  them  all,  and  at  the  moment  of  our  passing  from  the  dark  cold  night  into  the 
warm  light  room,  this  was  the  way  in  which  they  were  all  employed  :  Mrs.  Gummidge 
in  the  background,  clapping  her  hands  like  a  madwoman. 

The  little  picture  was  so  instantaneously  dissolved  by  our  going  in,  that  one 
might  have  doubted  whether  it  had  ever  been.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  the  astonished 
family,  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  holding  out  my  hand  to  him,  when  Ham 
shouted — 

'  Mas'r  Davy  !     It 's  Mas'r  Davy  !  ' 

In  a  moment  we  were  all  shaking  hands  with  one  another,  and  asking  one  another 
liow  we  did,  and  telling  one  another  how  glad  we  were  to  meet,  and  all  talking  at  once. 
Mr.  Peggotty  was  so  proud  and  overjoyed  to  see  us,  that  he  did  not  know  what  to  say 
or  do,  but  kept  over  and  over  again  shaking  hands  with  me,  and  then  with  Steerforth, 
and  then  with  me,  and  then  ruffling  his  shaggy  hair  all  over  his  head,  and  laughing 
with  such  glee  and  triumph,  that  it  was  a  treat  to  see  him. 

'  Why,  that  you  two  gent'lmen — gent'lmen  growed — should  come  to  this  here 
roof  to-night,  of  all  nights  in  my  life,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  is  such  a  thing  as  never 
happened  afore,  I  do  rightly  believe  !  Em'ly,  my  darling,  come  here  !  Come  here, 
my  little  witch  !  There  's  Mas'r  Davy's  friend,  my  dear  !  There  's  the  gent'lman  as 
you  've  heerd  on,  Em'ly.  He  comes  to  see  you,  along  with  Mas'r  Davy,  on  the  brightest 
night  of  your  uncle's  life  as  ever  was  or  will  be,  Gorm  the  t'other  one,  and  horroar  for  it  ! ' 

After  delivering  this  speech  all  in  a  breath,  and  with  extraordinary  animation 
and  pleasure,  Mr.  Peggotty  put  one  of  his  large  hands  rapturously  on  each  side  of  his 
niece's  face,  and  kissing  it  a  dozen  times,  laid  it  with  a  gentle  pride  and  love  upon  his 
broad  chest,  and  patted  it  as  if  his  hand  had  been  a  lady's.  Then  he  let  her  go  ;  and 
as  she  ran  into  the  little  chamber  where  I  used  to  sleep,  looked  round  upon  us,  quite 
hot  and  out  of  breath  with  his  uncommon  satisfaction. 

'  If  you  two  gent'lmen — gent'lmen  growed  now,  and  such  gent'lmen '  said 

Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  So  th'  are,  so  th'  are  !  '  cried  Ham.  '  Well  said  !  So  th'  are.  Mas'r  Davy  bor — 
gent'lmen  growed — so  th'  are  !  ' 

'  If  you  two  gent'lmen,  gent'lmen  growed,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  don't  ex-cuse 
me  for  being  in  a  state  of  mind,  when  you  understand  matters,  I  '11  arks  your  pardon. 
Em'ly,  my  dear  ! — She  knows  I  'm  a  going  to  tell,'  here  his  delight  broke  out  again, 
'  and  has  made  off.     Would  you  be  so  good  as  look  arter  her,  mawther,  for  a  minute  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Gummidge  nodded  and  disappeared. 

'  If  this  ain't,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  sitting  down  among  us  by  the  fire,  '  the  brightest 
night  o'  my  life,  I  'm  a  shell-fish — biled  too — and  more  I  can't  say.  This  here  Httle 
Em'ly,  sir,'  in  a  low  voice  to  Steerforth,  '  her  as  you  see  a  blushing  here  just  now ' 

Steerforth  only  nodded  ;  but  with  such  a  pleased  expression  of  interest,  and  of 
participation  in  Mr.  Peggotty's  feelings,  that  the  latter  answered  him  as  if  he  had 
spoken. 

'  To  be  sure,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  that 's  her,  and  so  she  is.     Thank  'ee,  sir.' 

Ham  nodded  to  me  several  times,  as  if  he  would  have  said  so  too. 

'  This  here  little  Em'ly  of  ours,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  has  been,  in  our  house,  what 
I  suppose  (I  'm  a  ignorant  man,  but  that 's  my  belief)  no  one  but  a  little  bright-eyed 
creetur  can  be  in  a  house.  She  ain't  my  child  ;  I  never  had  one  ;  but  I  couldn't  love 
her  more.     You  understand  !     I  couldn't  do  it !  ' 

'  I  quite  understand,'  said  Steerforth. 


LITTLE  EM'LY  '20ii 

'  I  know  you  do,  sir,'  rctunied  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  and  thank'cc  af,'ain.  Mas'r  Davy, 
he  can  remember  what  she  was  ;  you  may  judge  for  your  own  self  what  she  is  ;  but 
neither  of  you  can't  fully  know  what  she  has  been,  is,  and  will  be,  to  my  loving  'art. 
I  am  rough,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Pcggotty,  '  I  am  as  rougli  as  a  sea  porkypine  ;  but  no  one, 
unless,  mayhap,  it  is  a  woman,  can  know,  I  think,  what  our  little  Km'ly  is  to  me. 
And  betwixt  ourselves,'  sinking  his  voice  lower  yet,  '  that  woman's  name  ain't  Missis 
Gummidge,  neither,  though  she  has  a  world  of  merits.' 

Mr.  Peggotty  ruflled  his  hair  again  with  both  hands,  as  a  further  preparation  for 
what  he  was  going  to  say,  and  went  on,  with  a  hand  upon  each  of  his  knees — 

'  There  was  a  certain  person  as  had  know'd  our  Em'ly,  from  the  time  when  her 
father  was  drownded  ;  as  had  seen  her  constant ;  when  a  babby,  when  a  young  gal, 
when  a  woman.  Not  much  of  a  person  to  look  at,  he  warn't,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
'  something  o'  my  own  build — rough — a  good  deal  o'  the  sou'-wester  in  him — wery 
salt — but,  on  the  whole,  a  honest  sort  of  a  chap,  with  his  'art  in  the  right  place.' 

I  thought  I  had  never  seen  Ham  grin  to  anything  like  the  extent  to  which  he  sat 
grinning  at  us  now. 

'  What  does  this  here  blessed  tarpaulin  go  and  do,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  his 
face  one  high  moon  of  enjoyment,  '  but  he  loses  that  there  'art  of  his  to  our  little 
Em'ly.  He  follers  her  about,  he  makes  hisself  a  sort  o'  sarvant  to  her,  he  loses  in  a 
great  measure  his  relish  for  his  wittles,  and  in  the  long-run  he  makes  it  clear  to  me 
wot 's  amiss.  Now  I  could  wish  myself,  you  see,  that  our  little  Em'ly  was  in  a  fair  way 
of  being  married.  I  could  wish  to  see  her,  at  all  ewents,  under  articles  to  a  honest 
man  as  had  a  right  to  defend  her.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  may  live,  or  how  soon  I 
may  die  ;  but  I  know  that  if  I  was  capsized,  any  night,  in  a  gale  of  wind  in  Yarmouth 
Roads  here,  and  was  to  see  the  town-lights  shining  for  the  last  time  over  the  rollers  as 
I  couldn't  make  no  head  aginst,  I  could  go  down  quieter  for  thinking  "  There  's  a  man 
ashore  there,  iron-true  to  my  little  Em'ly,  God  bless  her,  and  no  wrong  can  touch  my 
Em'ly  while  so  be  as  that  man  lives."  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty,  in  simple  earnestness,  waved  his  right  arm,  as  if  he  were  waving  it 
at  the  town-lights  for  the  last  time,  and  then,  exchanging  a  nod  with  Ham,  whose 
eye  he  caught,  proceeded  as  before — 

'  Well  !  I  counsels  him  to  speak  to  Em'ly.  He  's  big  enough,  but  he  's  bashfuller 
than  a  little  'un,  and  he  don't  like.  So  I  speak.  "  What  ?  Him  ?  "  says  Em'ly. 
"  Him  that  I  've  know'd  so  intimate  so  many  years,  and  like  so  much.  Oh,  uncle  !  I 
never  can  have  him.  He  's  such  a  good  fellow  !  "  I  gives  her  a  kiss,  and  I  says  no 
more  to  her  than  "  My  dear,  you  're  right  to  speak  out,  you  're  to  choose  for  yourself, 
you  're  as  free  as  a  little  bird."  Then  I  aways  to  him,  and  I  says,  "  I  wish  it  could 
have  been  so,  but  it  can't.  But  you  can  both  be  as  you  was,  and  wot  I  say  to  you  is, 
Be  as  you  was  with  her,  like  a  man."  He  says  to  me,  a  shaking  of  my  hand,  "  I  will  !  " 
he  says.  And  he  was — honourable  and  manful — for  two  year  going  on,  and  we  was 
just  the  same  at  home  here  as  afore.' 

Mr.  Peggotty's  face,  which  had  varied  in  its  expression  with  the  various  stages 
of  his  narrative,  now  resumed  all  its  former  triumphant  delight,  as  he  laid  a  hand 
upon  my  knee  and  a  hand  upon  Steerforth's  (previously  wetting  them  both,  for  the 
greater  emphasis  of  the  action),  and  divided  the  following  speech  between  us — 

'  All  of  a  sudden,  one  evening— as  it  might  he  to-night — comes  little  Em'ly  from 
her  work,  and  him  with  her  !  There  ain't  so  much  in  that,  you  '11  say.  No.  because 
he  takes  care  on  her,  like  a  brother,  arter  dark,  and  indeed  afore  dark,  and  at  all  times. 


204  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

But  this  tarpaulin  chap,  he  takes  hold  of  her  hand,  and  he  cries  out  to  me,  joyful, 
"  Look  here  !  This  is  to  be  my  little  wife  !  "  And  she  says,  half  bold,  and  half  shy 
and  half  a  laughing  and  half  a  crying,  "  Yes,  uncle  !  If  you  please." — If  I  please  !  ' 
cried  Mr.  Peggotty,  rolling  his  head  in  an  ecstasy  at  the  idea  ;  '  Lord,  as  if  I  should 
do  anythink  else  ! — "  If  you  please,  I  am  steadier  now,  and  I  have  thought  better  of  it, 
and  I  'U  be  as  good  a  little  wife  as  I  can  to  him,  for  he  's  a  dear,  good  fellow  !  *  Then 
Missis  Gummidge,  she  claps  her  hands  like  a  play,  and  you  come  in.  Theer  !  the 
murder  's  out  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty — '  You  come  in  !  It  took  place  this  here  present 
hour ;   and  here  's  the  man  that  '11  marry  her,  the  minute  she  's  out  of  her  time.' 

Ham  staggered,  as  well  he  might,  under  the  blow  Mr.  Peggotty  dealt  him  in  his 
unbounded  joy,  as  a  mark  of  confidence  and  friendship  ;  but  feeling  called  upon  to 
say  something  to  us,  he  said,  with  much  faltering  and  great  difficulty — 

'  She  warn't  no  higher  than  you  was,  Mas'r  Davy — when  you  first  come — when 
I  thought  what  she  'd  grow  up  to  be.  I  see  her  grow  up — gent'lmen — like  a  flower. 
I  'd  lay  down  my  life  for  her — Mas'r  Davy — ^Oh  !  most  content  and  cheerful  !  She  's 
more  to  me — gent'lmen — than — she  's  all  to  me  that  ever  I  can  want,  and  more  than 
ever  I — than  ever  I  could  say.  I — I  love  her  true.  There  ain't  a  gent'lman  in  all 
the  land — nor  yet  saihng  upon  all  the  sea — that  can  love  his  lady  more  than  I  love 
her,  though  there  's  many  a  common  man^ would  say  better — what  he  meant.' 

I  thought  it  affecting  to  see  such  a  sturdy  fellow  as  Ham  was  now,  trembling 
in  the  strength  of  what  he  felt  for  the  pretty  little  creature  who  had  won  his  heart. 
I  thought  the  simple  confidence  reposed  in  us  by  Mr.  Peggotty  and  by  himself,  was,  in 
itself,  affecting.  I  was  affected  by  the  story  altogether.  How  far  my  emotions  were 
influenced  by  the  recollections  of  my  childhood,  I  don't  know.  Whether  I  had  come 
there  with  any  lingering  fancy  that  I  was  still  to  love  little  Em'ly,  I  don't  know.  I 
know  that  I  was  filled  with  pleasure  by  all  this  ;  but,  at  first,  with  an  indescribably 
sensitive  pleasure,  that  a  very  little  would  have  changed  to  pain. 

Therefore,  if  it  had  depended  upon  me  to  touch  the  prevailing  chord  among  them 
with  any  skill,  I  should  have  made  a  poor  hand  of  it.  But  it  depended  upon  Steerforth  ; 
and  he  did  it  with  such  address,  that  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  all  as  easy  and  as  happy 
as  it  was  possible  to  be. 

'  Mr.  Peggotty,'  he  said,  '  you  are  a  thoroughly  good  fellow,  and  deserve  to  be  as 
happy  as  you  are  to-night.  My  hand  upon  it  !  Ham,  I  give  you  joy,  my  boy.  My 
hand  upon  that,  too  !  Daisy,  stir  the  fire,  and  make  it  a  brisk  one  !  and  Mr.  Peggotty, 
unless  you  can  induce  your  gentle  niece  to  come  back  (for  whom  I  vacate  this  seat  in 
the  corner),  I  shall  go.  Any  gap  at  your  fireside  on  such  a  night — such  a  gap  least 
of  all — I  wouldn't  make,  for  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  !  ' 

So  Mr.  Peggotty  went  into  my  old  room  to  fetch  little  Em'ly.  At  first,  little  Em'ly 
didn't  like  to  come,  and  then  Ham  went.  Presently  they  brought  her  to  the  fireside, 
verj'  much  confused,  and  very  shy, — but  she  soon  became  more  assured  when  she  found 
how  gently  and  respectfully  Steerforth  spoke  to  her  ;  how  skillfuly  he  avoided  any- 
thing that  would  embarrass  her  ;  how  he  talked  to  Mr.  Peggotty  of  boats,  and  ships, 
and  tides,  and  fish  ;  how  he  referred  to  me  about  the  time  when  he  had  seen 
Mr.  Peggotty  at  Salem  House  ;  how  delighted  he  was  with  the  boat  and  all  belonging 
to  it ;  how  lightly  and  easily  he  carried  on,  until  he  brought  us,  by  degrees,  into  a 
charmed  circle,  and  we  were  all  talking  away  without  any  reserve. 

Em'ly,  indeed,  said  little  all  the  evening  ;  but  she  looked,  and  listened,  and  her 
face  got  animated,  and  she  was  charming.     Steerforth  told  a  story  of  a  dismal  ship- 


lATTLK  EM'LY  20.5 

wreck  (which  arose  out  of  his  talk  with  Mr.  l*ef,'f,'otty),  as  if  he  saw  it  all  hcfore  him— 
and  little  Em'ly's  eyes  were  fastened  on  him  all  the  time,  as  if  she  saw  it  too.  He 
told  us  a  merry  adventure  of  his  own,  as  a  relief  to  that,  with  as  much  f,'aiety  as  if  the 
narrative  were  as  fresh  to  him  as  it  was  to  us — and  little  Em'ly  laughed  until  the  boat 
rang  with  the  musical  soimds,  and  we  all  laughed  (Stecrforth  too),  in  irresistible 
sympathy  with  what  was  so  pleasant  and  light-hearted.  He  got  Mr.  I'eggotty  to  sing, 
or  rather  to  roar,  '  When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow,  do  blow,  do  blow  '  ;  and  he  sang 
a  sailor's  song  himself,  so  pathetically  and  })cautifully,  that  I  could  have  almost  fancied 
that  the  real  wind  creeping  sorrowfully  round  the  house,  and  murmuring  low  through 
our  unbroken  silence,  was  there  to  listen. 

As  to  Mrs.  Gummidge,  he  roused  that  victim  of  dcs]ioiidency  with  a  success 
never  attained  by  any  one  else  (so  Mr.  Peggotty  informed  me),  since  the  decease  of 
the  old  one.  He  left  her  so  little  leisure  for  being  miserable,  that  she  said  next  day 
she  thought  she  must  have  been  bewitched. 

But  he  set  up  no  monopoly  of  the  general  attention,  or  the  conversation.  When 
little  Em'ly  grew  more  courageous,  and  talked  (but  still  bashfully)  across  the  fire  to 
me,  of  our  old  wanderings  upon  the  beach,  to  pick  up  shells  and  pebbles  ;  and  when 
I  asked  her  if  she  recollected  how  I  used  to  be  devoted  to  her  ;  and  when  we  both 
laughed  and  reddened,  casting  these  looks  back  on  the  pleasant  old  times,  so  unreal 
to  look  at  now  ;  he  was  silent  and  attentive,  and  observed  us  thoughtfully.  She  sat, 
at  this  time,  and  all  the  evening,  on  the  old  locker  in  her  old  little  corner  by  the  fire, 
with  Ham  beside  her,  where  I  used  to  sit.  I  could  not  satisfy  myself  whether  it  was 
in  her  own  little  tormenting  way,  or  in  a  maidenly  reserve  before  us,  that  she  kept 
quite  close  to  the  wall,  and  away  from  him  ;  but  I  observed  that  she  did  so,  all  the 
evening. 

As  I  remember,  it  was  almost  midnight  when  we  took  our  leave.  We  had  had 
some  biscuit  and  dried  fish  for  supper,  and  Steerforth  had  produced  from  his  pocket 
a  full  flask  of  Hollands,  which  we  men  (I  may  say  we  men,  now,  without  a  blush)  had 
emptied.  We  parted  merrily  ;  and  as  they  all  stood  crowded  round  the  door  to  light 
us  as  far  as  they  could  upon  our  road,  I  saw  the  sweet  blue  eyes  of  little  Em'ly  peeping 
after  us,  from  behind  Ham,  and  heard  her  soft  voice  calling  to  us  to  be  careful  how 
we  went. 

'  A  most  engaging  little  beauty  !  '  said  Steerforth,  taking  my  arm.  '  AVell  ! 
It 's  a  quaint  place,  and  they  are  quaint  company  ;  and  it 's  quite  a  new  sensation  to 
mix  with  them.' 

'  How  fortunate  we  are,  too,'  I  returned,  '  to  have  arrived  to  witness  their  happiness 
in  that  intended  marriage  !  I  never  saw  people  so  happy.  How  delightful  to  see  it, 
and  to  be  made  the  sharers  in  their  honest  joy,  as  we  have  been  !  ' 

'  That 's  rather  a  chuckle-headed  fellow  for  the  girl ;    isn't  he  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

He  had  been  so  hearty  with  him,  and  with  them  all,  that  I  felt  a  shock  in  this 
unexpected  and  cold  reply.  But  turning  qxiickly  upon  him,  and  seeing  a  laugh  in 
his  eyes,  I  answered,  much  relieved^ — 

'  Ah,  Steerforth  !  It 's  well  for  you  to  joke  about  the  poor  !  You  may  skirmish 
with  Miss  Dartle,  or  try  to  hide  your  sympathies  in  jest  from  me,  but  I  know  better. 
When  I  see  how  perfectly  you  understand  them,  how  exquisitely  you  can  enter  into 
happiness  Hke  this  plain  fisherman's,  or  humour  a  love  like  my  old  nurse's,  I  know 
that  there  is  not  a  joy  or  sorrow,  not  an  emotion,  of  such  people,  than  can  be  indifferent 
to  you.     And  I  admire  and  love  you  for  it,  Steerforth,  twenty  times  the  more  !  ' 


206  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

He  stopped,  and  looking  in  my  face,  said,  '  Daisy,  I  believe  you  are  in  earnest,  and 
are  good.  I  wish  we  all  were  !  '  Next  moment  he  was  gaily  singing  Mr.  Peggotty's 
song,  as  we  walked  at  a  round  pace  back  to  Yarmouth. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

SOME    OLD    SCENES,    AND    SOME    NEW    PEOPLE 

STEERFORTH  and  I  stayed  for  more  than  a  fortnight  in  that  part  of  the 
country.  We  were  very  much  together,  I  need  not  say  ;  but  occasionally 
we  were  asunder  for  some  hours  at  a  time.  He  was  a  good  sailor,  and  I 
was  but  an  indifferent  one  ;  and  when  he  went  out  boating  with 
Mr.  Peggotty,  which  was  a  favourite  amusement  of  his,  I  generally  remained  ashore. 
My  occupation  of  Peggotty's  spare-room  put  a  constraint  upon  me,  from  which  he 
was  free  :  for,  knowing  how  assiduously  she  attended  on  Mr.  Barkis  all  day,  I  did  not 
like  to  remain  out  late  at  night ;  whereas  Steerforth,  lying  at  the  inn,  had  nothing 
to  consult  but  his  own  humour.  Thus  it  came  about,  that  I  heard  of  his  making  little 
treats  for  the  fishermen  at  Mr.  Peggotty's  house  of  call,  '  The  Willing  Mind,'  after  I 
was  in  bed,  and  of  his  being  afloat,  wrapped  in  fishermen's  clothes,  whole  moonlight 
nights,  and  coming  back  when  the  morning  tide  was  at  flood.  By  this  time,  however, 
I  knew  that  his  restless  nature  and  bold  spirits  delighted  to  find  a  vent  in  rough  toil 
and  hard  weather,  as  in  any  other  means  of  excitement  that  presented  itself  freshly 
to  him  ;  so  none  of  his  proceedings  surprised  me. 

Another  cause  of  our  being  sometimes  apart  was,  that  I  had  naturally  an  interest 
in  going  over  to  Blunderstone,  and  revisiting  the  old  familiar  scenes  of  my  childhood  ; 
while  Steerforth,  after  being  there  once,  had  naturally  no  great  interest  in  going  there 
again.  Hence,  on  three  or  four  days  that  I  can  at  once  recall,  we  went  our  several 
ways  after  an  early  breakfast,  and  met  again  at  a  late  dinner.  I  had  no  idea  how  he 
employed  his  time  in  the  interval,  beyond  a  general  knowledge  that  he  was  very 
popular  in  the  place,  and  had  twenty  means  of  actively  diverting  himself  where  another 
man  might  not  have  found  one. 

For  my  own  part,  my  occupation  in  my  solitary  pilgrimages  was  to  recall  every  yard 
of  the  old  road  as  I  went  along  it,  and  to  haunt  the  old  spots,  of  which  I  never  tired. 
I  haunted  them,  as  my  memory  had  often  done,  and  lingered  among  them  as  my  younger 
thoughts  had  lingered  when  I  was  far  away.  The  grave  beneath  the  tree,  where  both 
my  parents  lay — on  which  I  had  looked  out,  when  it  was  my  father's  only,  with  such 
curious  feelings  of  compassion,  and  by  which  I  had  stood,  so  desolate,  when  it  was 
opened  to  receive  my  pretty  mother  and  her  baby — the  grave  which  Peggotty's  own 
faithful  care  had  ever  since  kept  neat,  and  made  a  garden  of,  I  walked  near,  by  the 
hour.  It  lay  a  little  off  the  churchyard  path,  in  a  quiet  corner,  not  so  far  removed 
but  I  could  read  the  names  upon  the  stone  as  I  walked  to  and  fro,  startled  by  the  sound 
of  the  church-bell  when  it  struck  the  hour,  for  it  was  like  a  departed  voice  to  me. 
My  reflections  at  these  times  were  always  associated  with  the  figure  I  was  to  make  in 
life,  and  the  distinguished  things  I  was  to  do.  My  echoing  footsteps  went  to  no  other 
tune,  but  were  as  constant  to  that  as  if  I  had  come  home  to  build  my  castles  in  the 
air  at  a  living  mother's  side. 


SOME  0L1>  SCENES,  AND  SOME  NEW  PEOPLE        207 

There  were  great  changes  in  my  old  home.  The  ragged  nests,  so  long  deserted 
by  the  rooks,  were  gone  ;  and  the  trees  were  lopped  and  topped  out  of  their  remembered 
shapes.  The  garden  had  run  wild,  and  half  the  windows  of  the  house  were  shut  up. 
It  was  occupied,  but  only  by  a  poor  lunatic  gentleman,  and  the  people  who  took  care  of 
him.  He  was  always  sitting  at  my  little  window,  looking  out  into  the  churchyard  ; 
and  I  wondered  whether  his  rambling  thoughts  ever  went  upon  any  of  the  fancies  that 
used  to  occupy  mine,  on  the  rosy  mornings  when  I  peeped  out  of  that  same  little  window 
in  my  night-clothes,  and  saw  the  sheep  quietly  feeding  in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun. 

Our  old  neighbours,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cirayper,  were  gone  to  South  America,  and  the 
rain  had  made  its  way  through  the  roof  of  their  empty  house,  and  stained  the  outer 
walls.  Mr.  Chillip  was  married  again  to  a  tall,  raw-boned,  high-nosed  wife  ;  and  they 
had  a  weazen  little  baby,  with  a  heavy  head  that  it  couldn't  hold  up,  and  two  weak 
staring  eyes,  with  which  it  seemed  to  be  always  wondering  why  it  had  ever  been  bom. 

It  was  with  a  singular  jumble  of  sadness  and  pleasure  that  I  used  to  linger  about  my 
native  place,  until  the  reddening  winter  sun  admonished  me  that  it  was  time  to  start 
on  my  returning  walk.  But,  when  the  place  was  left  behind,  and  especially  when 
Steerforth  and  I  were  happily  seated  over  our  dinner  by  a  blazing  fire,  it  was  delicious 
to  think  of  having  been  there.  So  it  was,  though  in  a  softened  degree,  when  I  went 
to  my  neat  room  at  night ;  and,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  crocodile-book  (which 
was  always  there,  upon  a  little  table),  remembered  with  a  grateful  heart  how  blest  I 
was  in  having  such  a  friend  as  Steerforth,  such  a  friend  as  Peggotty,  and  such  a  substi- 
tute for  what  I  had  lost  as  my  excellent  and  generous  aunt. 

My  nearest  way  to  Yarmouth,  in  coming  back  from  these  long  walks,  was  by  a 
ferry.  It  landed  me  on  the  flat  between  the  town  and  the  sea,  which  I  could  make 
straight  across  and  so  save  myself  a  considerable  circuit  by  the  high-road.  Mr. 
Peggotty's  house  being  on  that  waste-piece,  and  not  a  hundred  yards  out  of  my  tract, 
I  always  looked  in  as  I  went  by.  Steerforth  was  pretty  sure  to  be  there  expecting  me, 
and  we  went  on  together  through  the  frosty  air  and  gathering  fog  towards  the  twinkling 
lights  of  the  town. 

One  dark  evening,  when  I  was  later  than  usual — for  I  had,  that  day,  been  making 
my  parting  visit  to  Blunderstone,  as  we  were  now  about  to  return  home — I  found  him 
alone  in  Mr.  Peggotty's  house,  sitting  thoughtfully  before  the  fire.  He  was  so  intent 
upon  his  own  reflections  that  he  was  quite  unconscious  of  my  approach.  This,  indeed, 
he  might  easily  have  been  if  he  had  been  less  absorbed,  for  footsteps  fell  noiselessly  on 
the  sandy  ground  outside  ;  but  even  my  entrance  failed  to  rouse  him.  I  was  standing 
close  to  him,  looking  at  him  ;  and  still,  with  a  heavy  brow,  he  was  lost  in  his 
meditations. 

He  gave  such  a  start  when  I  put  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  that  he  made  me 
start  too. 

'  You  come  upon  me,'  he  said,  almost  angrily,  '  like  a  reproachful  ghost  !  ' 

'  I  was  obliged  to  announce  myself,  somehow,'  I  replied.  '  Have  I  called  you 
down  from  the  stars  ?  ' 

'  No,'  he  answered.     '  No.' 

'  Up  from  anywhere,  then  ?  '  said  I,  taking  my  seat  near  him. 

'  I  was  looking  at  the  pictures  in  the  fire,'  he  returned. 

'  But  you  are  spoiling  them  for  me,'  said  I,  as  he  stirred  it  quickly  with  a  piece 
of  burning  wood,  striking  out  of  it  a  train  of  red-hot  sparks  that  went  careering  up  the 
little  chimney,  and  roaring  out  into  the  air. 


208  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  would  not  have  seen  them,'  he  returned.  '  I  detest  this  mongrel  time, 
neither  day  nor  night.     How  late  you  are  !     Where  have  you  been  ?  ' 

'  I  have  been  taking  leave  of  my  usual  walk,'  said  I. 

'  And  I  have  been  sitting  here,'  said  Steerforth,  glancing  round  the  room, '  thinking 
that  all  the  people  we  found  so  glad  on  the  night  of  our  coming  down,  might — ^to 
judge  from  the  present  wasted  air  of  the  place — be  dispersed,  or  dead,  or  come  to  I 
don't  know  what  harm.  David,  I  wish  to  God  I  had  had  a  judicious  father  these 
last  twenty  years  !  ' 

'  My  dear  Steerforth,  what  is  the  matter  ?  ' 

'  I  wish  with  all  my  soul  I  had  been  better  guided  !  '  he  exclaimed.  '  I  wish  with 
all  my  soul  I  could  guide  myself  better  !  ' 

There  was  a  passionate  dejection  in  his  manner  that  quite  amazed  me.  He  was 
more  unlike  himself  than  I  could  have  supposed  possible. 

'  It  would  be  better  to  be  this  poor  Peggotty,  or  his  lout  of  a  nephew,'  he  said, 
getting  up  and  leaning  moodily  against  the  chimney-piece,  with  his  face  towards  the 
fire,  '  than  to  be  myself,  twenty  times  richer  and  twenty  times  wiser,  and  be  the  torment 
to  myself  that  I  have  been,  in  this  devil's  bark  of  a  boat,  within  the  last  half-hour  !  ' 

I  was  so  confounded  by  the  alteration  in  him,  that  at  first  I  could  only  observe 
him  in  silence,  as  he  stood  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  looking  gloomily  down 
at  the  fire.  At  length  I  begged  him,  with  all  the  earnestness  I  felt,  to  tell  me  what 
had  occurred  to  cross  him  so  unusually,  and  to  let  me  sympathise  with  him,  if  I  could  not 
hope  to  advise  him.  Before  I  had  well  concluded,  he  began  to  laugh — fretfully  at  first, 
but  soon  with  returning  gaiety. 

'  Tut,  it 's  nothing,  Daisy  !  nothing  !  '  he  replied.  '  I  told  you  at  the  inn  in 
London,  I  am  heavy  company  for  myself,  sometimes.  I  have  been  a  nightmare  to 
myself,  just  now — must  have  had  one,  I  think.  At  odd  dull  times,  nursery  tales 
come  up  into  the  memory,  unrecognised  for  what  they  are.  I  believe  I  have  been 
confounding  myself  with  the  bad  boy  who  "  didn't  care,"  and  became  food  for  lions — 
a  grander  kind  of  going  to  the  dogs,  I  suppose.  What  old  women  call  the  horrors, 
have  been  creeping  over  me  from  head  to  foot.     I  have  been  afraid  of  myself.' 

'  You  are  afraid  of  nothing  else,  I  think,'  said  I. 

'  Perhaps  not,  and  yet  may  have  enough  to  be  afraid  of  too,'  he  answered.  '  Well ! 
So  it  goes  by  !  I  am  not  about  to  be  hipped  again,  David  ;  but  I  tell  you,  my  good 
fellow,  once  more,  that  it  would  have  been  well  for  me  (and  for  more  than  me)  if  I  had 
had  a  steadfast  and  judicious  father  !  ' 

His  face  was  always  full  of  expression,  but  I  never  saw  it  express  such  a  dark 
kind  of  earnestness  as  when  he  said  these  words,  with  his  glance  bent  on  the   fire. 

'  So  much  for  that  !  '  he  said,  making  as  if  he  tossed  something  light  into  the  air, 
with  his  hand. 

'  "  Why,  being  gone,  I  am  a  man  again," 

like  Macbeth.  And  now  for  dinner  !  If  I  have  not  (Macbeth-like)  broken  up  the 
feast  with  most  admired  disorder,  Daisy.' 

'  But  where  are  they  all,  I  wonder  !  '  said  I. 

'  God  knows,'  said  Steerforth.  '  After  strolling  to  the  ferry  looking  for  you,  I 
strolled  in  here  and  found  the  place  deserted.  That  set  me  thinking,  and  you  found 
me  thinking.' 

The  advent  of  Mrs.  Gummidge   with   a  basket,  explained   how   the  house  had 


SOME  OLD  SCENES,  AND  SOME  NEW  PEOPLE       209 

happened  to  be  empty.  She  li.-id  Imrried  out  to  t)uy  somethitif;  that  was  needed, 
against  Mr.  Pet,'f,'otty's  return  vvitli  the  tide  ;  and  had  left  the  door  open  in  the  mean- 
while, lest  Ham  and  little  Em'ly,  with  whom  it  was  an  early  night,  should  come  home 
while  she  was  gone.  Steerforth,  after  very  much  improving  Mrs.  (iummidge's  spirits 
by  a  cheerful  salutation  and  a  jocose  eml)race,  took  my  arm,  and  hurried  nic  away. 

He  had  improvc<l  his  own  spirits,  no  less  than  Mrs.  Gummidge's,  for  they  were 
again  at  their  usual  flow,  and  he  was  full  of  vivacious  conversation  as  we  went 
along. 

'  And  so,'  he  said,  gaily,  '  we  abandon  this  buccaneer  life  to-morrow,  do  we  ?  ' 

'  So  we  agreed,'  I  returned.     '  And  our  places  by  the  coach  are  taken,  you  know.* 

'  Ay  !  there  's  no  help  for  it,  I  suppose,'  said  Steerforth.  '  I  have  almost  forgotten 
that  there  is  anything  to  do  in  the  world  but  to  go  out  tossing  on  the  sea  here.  I  wish 
there  was  not.' 

'  As  long  as  the  novelty  should  last,'  said  I,  laughing. 

'  Like  enough,'  he  returned  ;  '  though  there  's  a  sarcastic  meaning  in  that  observa- 
tion for  an  amiable  piece  of  innocence  like  my  young  friend.  Well  !  I  dare  say  I  am 
a  capricious  fellow,  David.  I  know  I  am;  but  while  the  iron  is  hot,  I  can  strike  it 
vigorously  too.  I  could  pass  a  reasonably  good  examination  already,  as  a  j)ilot  in  these 
waters,  I  think.' 

'  Mr.  Peggotty  says  you  are  a  wonder,'  I  returned. 

'  A  nautical  phenomenon,  eh  ?  '  laughed  Steerforth. 

'  Indeed  he  does,  and  you  know  how  truly  ;  knowing  how  ardent  you  are  in  any 
pursuit  you  follow,  and  how  easily  you  can  master  it.  And  that  amazes  me  most  in 
you,  Steerforth — that  you  should  be  contented  with  such  fitful  uses  of  your  powers.' 

'  Contented  ?  '  he  answered,  merrily.  '  I  am  never  contented,  except  with  your 
freshness,  my  gentle  Daisy.  As  to  fitfulness,  I  have  never  learnt  the  art  of  binding 
myself  to  any  of  the  wheels  on  which  the  Ixions  of  these  days  are  turning  round  and 
round.  I  missed  it  somehow  in  a  bad  apprenticeship,  and  now  don't  care  about  it. — 
You  know  I  have  bought  a  boat  down  here  ?  ' 

'  What  an  extraordinary  fellow  you  are,  Steerforth  !  '  I  exclaimed,  stopping — 
for  this  was  the  first  I  had  heard  of  it.  '  When  you  may  never  care  to  come  near  the 
place  again  !  ' 

'  I  don't  know  that,'  he  returned.  '  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  the  place.  At  all 
events,'  walking  me  briskly  on,  '  I  have  bought  a  boat  that  was  for  sale — a  clipper, 
Mr.  Peggotty  says  ;  and  so  she  is — and  Mr.  Peggotty  will  be  master  of  her  in  my 
absence.' 

'  Now  I  understand  you,  Steerforth  !  '  said  I,  exultingly.  '  You  pretend  to  have 
bought  it  for  yourself,  but  you  have  really  done  so  to  confer  a  benefit  on  him.  I  might 
have  known  as  much  at  first,  knowing  you.  My  dear  kind  Steerforth,  how  can  I  tell 
you  what  I  think  of  your  generosity  ?  ' 

'  Tush  !  '  he  answered,  turning  red.     '  The  less  said,  the  better.' 

'  Didn't  I  know  ?  '  cried  I,  '  didn't  I  say  that  there  was  not  a  joy,  or  sorrow,  or  any 
emotion  of  such  honest  hearts  that  was  indifferent  to  you  ?  ' 

'  Aye,  aye,'  he  answered,  '  you  told  me  all  that.  There  let  it  rest.  We  have  said 
enough  !  ' 

Afraid  of  offending  him  by  pursuing  the  subject  when  he  made  so  light  of  it,  I 
only  pursued  it  in  my  thoughts  as  we  went  on  at  even  a  quicker  pace  than  before. 

*  She  must  be  newly  rigged,'  said  Steerforth,  '  and  I  shall  leave  Littimer  behind 


210  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

to  see  it  done,  that  I  may  know  she  is  quite  complete.     Did  I  tell  you  Littimer  had 
come  down  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  Oh  yes  !   came  down  this  morning,  with  a  letter  from  my  mother.' 

As  our  looks  met,  I  observed  that  he  was  pale  even  to  his  lips,  though  he  looked 
very  steadily  at  me.  I  feared  that  some  difference  between  him  and  his  mother  might 
have  led  to  his  being  in  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  I  had  found  him  at  the  solitary 
fireside.     I  hinted  so. 

'  Oh  no  !  '  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  and  giving  a  slight  laugh.  '  Nothing  of  the 
sort  !     Yes.     He  is  come  down,  that  man  of  mine.' 

'  The  same  as  ever  ?  '  said  I. 

'  The  same  as  ever,'  said  Steerforth.  '  Distant  and  quiet  as  the  North  Pole. 
He  shall  see  to  the  boat  being  fresh  named.  She  's  the  Stormy  Petrel  now.  What 
does  Mr.  Peggotty  care  for  Stormy  Petrels  !     I  '11  have  her  christened  again.' 

'  By  what  name  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  The  Little  Em'ly.' 

As  he  had  continued  to  look  steadily  at  me,  I  took  it  as  a  reminder  that  he  objected 
to  being  extolled  for  his  consideration.  I  could  not  help  showing  in  my  face  how 
much  it  pleased  me,  but  I  said  little,  and  he  resumed  his  usual  smile,  and  seemed 
relieved. 

'  But  see  here,'  he  said,  looking  before  us,  '  where  the  original  little  Em'ly  comes  ! 
And  that  fellow  with  her,  eh  ?  Upon  my  soul,  he  's  a  true  knight.  He  never  leaves 
her!' 

Ham  was  a  boat-builder  in  these  days,  having  improved  a  natural  ingenuity  in 
that  handicraft,  until  he  had  become  a  skilled  workman.  He  was  in  his  working-dress, 
and  looked  rugged  enough,  but  manly  withal,  and  a  very  fit  protector  for  the  blooming 
little  creature  at  his  side.  Indeed,  there  was  a  frankness  in  his  face,  an  honesty,  and 
an  undisguised  show  of  his  pride  in  her,  and  his  love  for  her,  which  were,  to  me,  the 
best  of  good  looks.  I  thought,  as  they  came  towards  us,  that  they  were  well  matched 
even  in  that  particular. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  timidly  from  his  arm  as  we  stopped  to  speak  to  them,  and 
blushed  as  she  gave  it  to  Steerforth  and  to  me.  When  they  passed  on,  after  we  had 
exchanged  a  few  words,  she  did  not  like  to  replace  that  hand,  but,  still  appearing  timid 
and  constrained,  walked  by  herself.  I  thought  all  this  very  pretty  and  engaging,  and 
Steerforth  seemed  to  think  so  too,  as  we  looked  after  them  fading  away  in  the  light  of  a 
young  moon. 

Suddenly  there  passed  us — evidently  following  them — a  young  woman  whose 
approach  we  had  not  observed,  but  whose  face  I  saw  as  she  went  by,  and  thought  I 
had  a  faint  remembrance  of.  She  was  lightly  dressed,  looked  bold,  and  haggard,  and 
flaunting,  and  poor  ;  but  seemed,  for  the  time,  to  have  given  all  that  to  the  wind 
which  was  blowing,  and  to  have  nothing  in  her  mind  but  going  after  them.  As  the 
dark  distant  level,  absorbing  their  figures  into  itself,  left  but  itself  visible  between  us 
and  the  sea  and  clouds,  her  figure  disappeared  in  like  manner,  still  no  nearer  to  them 
than  before. 

'  That  is  a  black  shadow  to  be  following  the  girl,'  said  Steerforth,  standing  still ; 
'  what  does  it  mean  ?  ' 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  that  sounded  almost  strange  to  me. 
'  She  must  have  it  in  her  mind  to  beg  of  them,  I  think,'  said  I. 


SOME  OI;l)  S(.ENES,  AM)  SOME  NEW  PEOPLE        211 

'  A  beggar  would  l)e  no  novelty,*  said  Steerforth ;  '  l)ut  it  is  a  strange  thing  that 
the  beggar  should  take  that  shape  to-night.' 

'  Why  ?  '  I  asked  him. 

'  For  no  better  reason,  truly,  than  because  I  was  thinking,'  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
'  of  something  like  it,  when  it  came  by.     Where  the  devil  did  it  come  from,  I  wonder  !  ' 

'  From  the  shadow  of  this  wall,  I  think,'  said  I,  as  we  emerged  upon  a  road  on  which 
a  wall  abutted. 

'  It  's  gone  !  '  he  returned,  looking  over  his  shoulder.  '  And  all  ill  go  with  it. 
Now  for  our  dinner  !  ' 

But,  he  looked  again  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  sea-line  glimmering  afar  off ; 
and  yet  again.  And  he  wondered  about  it,  in  some  broken  expressions,  several  times, 
in  the  short  remainder  of  our  walk  ;  and  only  seemed  to  forget  it  when  the  light  of 
fire  and  candle  shone  upon  us,  seated  warm  and  merry,  at  table. 

Littimer  was  there,  and  had  his  usual  effect  upon  me.  When  I  said  to  him  that  I 
hoped  Mrs.  Steerforth  and  Miss  Dartle  were  well,  he  answered  respectfully  (and  of 
course  respectably),  that  they  were  tolerably  well,  he  thanked  me,  and  had  sent  their 
compliments.  This  was  all  ;  and  yet  he  seemed  to  me  to  say  as  plainly  as  a  man  could 
say,  '  You  are  very  young,  sir  ;   you  are  exceedingly  young.' 

We  had  almost  finished  dinner,  when  taking  a  step  or  two  towards  the  table, 
from  the  corner  where  he  kept  watch  upon  us,  or  rather  upon  me,  as  I  felt,  he  said  to 
his  master — 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.     Miss  Mowcher  is  down  here.' 

'  Who  ?  '  cried  Steerforth,  much  astonished. 

'  Miss  Mowcher,  sir.' 

'  Why,  what  on  earth  does  she  do  here  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  It  appears  to  be  her  native  part  of  the  country,  sir.  She  informs  me  that  she 
makes  one  of  her  professional  visits  here,  every  year,  sir.  I  met  her  in  the  street  this 
afternoon,  and  she  wished  to  know  if  she  might  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  you 
after  dinner,  sir.' 

'  Do  you  know  the  giantess  in  question,  Daisy  ?  '  inquired  Steerforth. 

I  was  obliged  to  confess — I  felt  ashamed,  even  of  being  at  this  disadvantage 
before  Littimer — that  Miss  Mowcher  and  I  were  wholly  unacquainted. 

'  Then  you  shall  know  her,'  said  Steerforth,  '  for  she  is  one  of  the  seven  wonders 
of  the  world.     When  Miss  Mowcher  comes,  show  her  in.' 

I  felt  some  curiosity  and  excitement  about  this  lady,  especially  as  Steerforth 
burst  into  a  fit  of  laughing  when  I  referred  to  her,  and  positively  refused  to  answer 
any  question  of  which  I  made  her  the  subject.  I  remained,  therefore,  in  a  state  of 
considerable  expectation  until  the  cloth  had  been  removed  some  half  an  hour,  and  we 
were  sitting  over  our  decanter  of  wine  before  the  fire,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Littimer,  with  his  habitual  serenity  quite  undisturbed,  announced — 

'  Miss  Moucher  !  ' 

I  looked  at  the  doorway  and  saw  nothing.  I  was  still  looking  at  the  doorway, 
thinking  that  Miss  Mowcher  was  a  long  while  making  her  appearance,  when,  to  my 
infinite  astonishment,  there  came  waddling  round  a  sofa  which  stood  between  me 
and  it,  a  pursy  dwarf,  of  about  forty  or  forty-five,  with  a  very  large  head  and  face,  a 
pair  of  roguish  grey  eyes,  and  such  extremely  little  arms,  that,  to  enable  herself  to  lay 
a  finger  archly  against  her  snub-nose  as  she  ogled  Steerforth.  she  was  obliged  to  meet 
the  finger  half-way  and  lay  her  nose  against  it.     Her  chin,  which  was  what  is  called  a 


212  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

double-chin,  was  so  fat  that  it  entirely  swallowed  up  the  strings  of  her  bonnet,  bow  and 
all.  Throat  she  had  none  ;  waist  she  had  none  ;  legs  she  had  none,  worth  mentioning  ; 
for  though  she  was  more  than  full-sized  down  to  where  her  waist  would  have  been,  if 
she  had  had  any,  and  though  she  terminated,  as  human  beings  generally  do,  in  a  pair 
of  feet,  she  was  so  short  that  she  stood  at  a  common-sized  chair  as  at  a  table,  resting 
a  bag  she  carried  on  the  seat.  This  lady  ;  dressed  in  an  off-hand,  easy  style  ;  bringing 
her  nose  and  her  forefinger  together,  with  the  difficulty  I  have  described  ;  standing 
with  her  head  necessarily  on  one  side,  and,  with  one  of  her  sharp  eyes  shut  up,  making 
an  uncommonly  knowing  face  ;  after  ogling  Steerforth  for  a  few  moments,  broke  into 
a  torrent  of  words. 

'  What !  My  flower  !  '  she  pleasantly  began,  shaking  her  large  head  at  him. 
'  You  're  there,  are  you  !  Oh,  you  naughty  boy,  fie  for  shame,  what  do  you  do  so  far 
away  from  home  ?  Up  to  mischief,  I  '11  be  bound.  Oh,  you  're  a  downy  fellow, 
Steerforth,  so  you  are,  and  I  'm  another,  ain't  I  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  You  'd  have  betted 
a  hundred  pound  to  five,  now,  that  you  wouldn't  have  seen  me  here,  wouldn't  you  ? 
Bless  you,  man  alive,  I  'm  everywhere.  I  'm  here,  and  there,  and  where  not,  like  the 
conjiuror's  half-crown  in  the  lady's  handkercher.  Talking  of  hankerchers — and  talking 
of  ladies — what  a  comfort  you  are  to  your  blessed  mother,  ain't  you,  my  dear  boy> 
over  one  of  my  shoulders,  and  I  don't  say  which  ?  ' 

Miss  Mowcher  untied  her  bonnet,  at  this  passage  of  her  discourse,  threw  back  the 
strings,  and  sat  down,  panting,  on  a  footstool  in  front  of  the  fire — making  a  kind  of 
arbour  of  the  dining-table,  which  spread  its  mahogany  shelter  above  her  head. 

'  Oh  my  stars  and  what  's-their-names  !  '  she  went  on,  clapping  a  hand  on  each 
of  her  little  knees,  and  glancing  shrewdly  at  me.  '  I  'm  of  too  full  a  habit,  that 's  the 
fact,  Steerforth.  After  a  flight  of  stairs,  it  gives  me  as  much  trouble  to  draw  every 
breath  I  want,  as  if  it  was  a  bucket  of  water.  If  you  saw  me  looking  out  of  an  upper 
window,  you  'd  think  I  was  a  fine  woman,  wouldn't  you  ?  ' 

'  I  should  think  that,  wherever  I  saw  you,'  replied  Steerforth. 

'  Go  along,  you  dog,  do  !  '  cried  the  little  creature,  making  a  whisk  at  him  with 
the  handkerchief  with  which  she  was  wiping  her  face,  '  and  don't  be  impudent  !  But  I 
give  you  my  word  and  honour  I  was  at  Lady  Mithers's  last  week — there  's  a  woman  ! 
How  she  wears  ! — and  Mithers  himself  came  into  the  room  where  I  was  waiting  for  her 
— there  's  a  man  !  How  he  wears  !  and  his  wig  too,  for  he  's  had  it  these  ten  years — 
and  he  went  on  at  that  rate  in  the  complimentary  line,  that  I  began  to  think  I  should 
be  obliged  to  ring  the  bell.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  He  's  a  pleasant  wretch,  but  he  wants 
principle.' 

'  What  were  you  doing  for  Lady  Mithers  ?  '  asked  Steerforth. 

'  That 's  tellings,  my  blessed  infant,'  she  retorted,  tapping  her  nose  again,  screwing 
up  her  face,  and  twinkling  her  eyes  like  an  imp  of  supernatural  intelligence.  '  Never 
you  mind  !  You  'd  like  to  know  whether  I  stop  her  hair  from  falling  off,  or  dye  it, 
or  touch  up  her  complexion,  or  improve  her  eyebrows,  wouldn't  you  ?  And  so  you 
shall,  my  darling — when  I  tell  you  !  Do  you  know  what  my  great  grandfather's 
name  was  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  Steerforth. 

'  It  was  Walker,  my  sweet  pet,'  replied  Miss  Mowcher,  '  and  he  came  of  a  long 
line  of  Walkers,  that  I  inherit  all  the  Hookey  estates  from.' 

I  never  beheld  anything  approaching  to  Miss  Mowcher's  wink,  except  Miss 
Mowcher's  self-possession.     She  had  a  wonderful  way  too,  when  listening  to  what 


SOME  OLD  SCENES,  AND  SOME  NEW  PEOPLE       2i.j 

was  said  to  her,  or  when  waitiiij^  for  an  answer  to  wliat  slie  had  said  herself,  of  pausing 
with  her  head  cunningly  on  one  side,  and  one  eye  turned  up  like  a  magpie's.  Altogether 
I  was  lost  in  amazement,  and  sat  staring  at  her,  quite  oblivious,  I  am  afraid,  of  the  laws 
of  politeness. 

She  had  by  this  time  drawn  her  chair  to  her  side,  and  was  busily  engaged  in 
producing  from  the  hag  (plunging  in  her  short  arm  to  the  shoulder,  at  every  dive)  a 
number  of  small  bottles,  sponges,  combs,  brushes,  bits  of  flannel,  little  pairs  of  curling- 
irons,  and  other  instruments,  which  she  tuml)led  in  a  heap  upon  the  chair.  From 
this  employment  she  suddenly  desisted,  and  said  to  Steerforth,  much  to  my 
confusion — 

'  Who  's  your  friend  ?  ' 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Steerforth  ;    '  he  wants  to  know  you.' 

'  Well  then,  he  shall  !  I  thought  he  looked  as  if  he  did  !  '  returned  Miss  Mowcher, 
waddling  up  to  me,  bag  in  hand,  and  laughing  on  me  as  she  came.  '  Face  like  a  peach  !  ' 
standing  on  tiptoe  to  pinch  my  cheek  as  I  sat.  '  Quite  tempting  !  I  'm  very  fond  of 
peaches.     Happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  'm  sure.' 

I  said  that  I  congratulated  myself  on  having  the  honour  to  make  hers,  and  that 
the  happiness  was  mutual. 

'  Oh,  my  goodness,  how  polite  we  are  !  '  exclaimed  Miss  Mowcher,  making  a 
preposterous  attempt  to  cover  her  large  face  with  her  morsel  of  a  hand.  '  What  a 
world  of  gammon  and  spinnage  it  is,  though,  ain't  it  !  ' 

This  was  addressed  confidentially  to  both  of  us,  as  the  morsel  of  a  hand  came 
away  from  the  face,  and  buried  itself,  arm  and  all,  in  the  bag  again. 

'  Wliat  do  you  mean,  Miss  Mowcher?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  What  a  refreshing  set  of  humbugs  we  are,  to  be  sure,  ain't  we, 
my  sweet  child  ?  '  replied  that  morsel  of  a  woman,  feeling  in  the  bag  with  her  head  on 
one  side,  and  her  eye  in  the  air.  '  Look  here  !  '  taking  something  out.  '  Scraps  of  the 
Russian  Prince's  nails.  Prince  Alphabet  turned  topsy-turvy,  /  call  him,  for  his  name  's 
got  all  the  letters  in  it,  higgledy-piggledy.' 

'  The  Russian  Prince  is  a  client  of  yours,  is  he  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  I  believe  you.  my  pet,'  replied  Miss  Mowcher.  '  I  keep  his  nails  in  order  for  him. 
Twice  a  week  !     Fingers  and  toes.' 

'  He  pays  well,  I  hope  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  Pays  as  he  speaks,  my  dear  child — through  the  nose,'  replied  Miss  Mowcher. 
'  None  of  your  close  shavers  the  Prince  ain't.  You  'd  say  so,  if  you  saw  his 
moustachios.     Red  by  nature,  black  by  art.' 

'  By  your  art,  of  course,'  said  Steerforth. 

Miss  Mowcher  winked  assent.  '  Forced  to  send  for  me.  Couldn't  help  it.  The 
climate  affected  his  dye  ;  it  did  very  well  in  Russia,  but  it  was  no  go  here.  You 
never  saw  such  a  rusty  prince  in  all  your  born  days  as  he  was.     Like  old  iron  !  ' 

'  Is  that  why  you  called  him  a  humbug,  just  now  ?  '  inquired  Steerforth. 

'  Oh,  you  're  a  broth  of  a  boy,  ain't  you  ?  '  returned  Miss  Mowcher,  shaking  her 
head  violently.  '  I  said,  what  a  set  of  humbugs  we  were  in  general,  and  I  showed  you 
the  scraps  of  the  Prince's  nails  to  prove  it.  The  Prince's  nails  do  more  for  me  in 
private  families  of  the  genteel  sort,  than  all  my  talents  put  together.  I  always  carry 
'em  about.  Thej'  're  the  best  introduction.  If  Miss  Mowcher  cuts  the  Prince's  nails, 
she  7nust  be  all  right.  I  give  'em  away  to  the  young  ladies.  They  put  'em  in  albums, 
I  believe.     Ha  !    ha  I    ha  !     Upon  my  life.  "  the  whole  social  system  "  (as  the  men 


214  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

call  it  when  they  make  speeches  in  Parliament)  is  a  system  of  Prince's  nails  !  '  said  this 
least  of  women,  trying  to  fold  her  short  arms,  and  nodding  her  large  head. 

Steerforth  laughed  heartily,  and  I  laughed  too.  Miss  Mowcher  continuing  all  the 
time  to  shake  her  head  (which  was  very  much  on  one  side),  and  to  look  into  the  air 
with  one  eye,  and  to  wink  with  the  other. 

'  Well,  well !  '  she  said,  smiting  her  small  knees,  and  rising,  '  this  is  not  business. 
Come,  Steerforth,  let 's  explore  the  polar  regions,  and  have  it  over.' 

She  then  selected  two  or  three  of  the  little  instruments,  and  a  little  bottle,  and 
asked  (to  my  surprise)  if  the  table  would  bear.  On  Steerforth  replying  in  the  affirma- 
tive, she  pushed  a  chair  against  it,  and  begging  the  assistance  of  my  hand,  mounted 
up,  pretty  nimbly,  to  the  top,  as  if  it  were  a  stage. 

'  If  either  of  you  saw  my  ankles,'  she  said,  when  she  was  safely  elevated,  '  say  so, 
and  I  '11  go  home  and  destroy  myself.' 

'  /  did  not,'  said  Steerforth. 

'  /  did  not,'  said  I. 

'  Well  then,'  cried  Miss  Mowcher,  '  I  '11  consent  to  live.  Now,  ducky,  ducky, 
ducky,  come  to  Mrs.  Bond  and  be  killed.' 

This  was  an  invocation  to  Steerforth  to  place  himself  under  her  hands  ;  who, 
accordingly,  sat  himself  down,  with  his  back  to  the  table,  and  his  laughing  face  towards 
me,  and  submitted  his  head  to  her  inspection,  evidently  for  no  other  purpose  than  our 
entertainment.  To  see  Miss  Mowcher  standing  over  him,  looking  at  his  rich  profusion 
of  brown  hair  through  a  large  round  magnifying  glass,  which  she  took  out  of  her 
pocket,  was  a  most  amazing  spectacle. 

'  You  're  a  pretty  fellow  !  '  said  Miss  Mowcher,  after  a  brief  inspection.  '  You  'd 
be  as  bald  as  a  friar  on  the  top  of  your  head  in  twelve  months,  but  for  me.  Just  half 
a  minute,  my  young  friend,  and  we  '11  give  you  a  polishing  that  shall  keep  your  cxirls 
on  for  the  next  ten  years  !  ' 

With  this,  she  tilted  some  of  the  contents  of  the  little  bottle  on  to  one  of  the  httle 
bits  of  flannel,  and,  again  imparting  some  of  the  virtues  of  that  preparation  to  one  of 
the  little  brushes,  began  rubbing  and  scraping  away  with  both  on  the  crown  of  Steer- 
forth's  head  in  the  busiest  manner  I  ever  witnessed,  talking  all  the  time. 

'  There  's  Charley  Pyegrave,  the  duke's  son,'  she  said.  '  You  know  Charley  ?  ' 
peeping  round  into  his  face. 

'  A  little,'  said  Steerforth. 

'  What  a  man  he  is  !  There  's  a  whisker  !  As  to  Charley's  legs,  if  they  were  only 
a  pair  (which  they  ain't),  they  'd  defy  competition.  Would  you  believe  he  tried 
to  do  without  me — in  the  Life-Guards,  too  ?  ' 

'  Mad  !   said  Steerforth. 

'  It  looks  like  it.  However,  mad  or  sane,  he  tried,'  returned  Miss  Mowcher. 
'  What  does  he  do,  but,  lo  and  behold  you,  he  goes  into  a  perfumer's  shop,  and  wants 
to  buy  a  bottle  of  the  Madagascar  Liquid.' 

'  Charley  does  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  Charley  does.     But  they  haven't  got  any  of  the  Madagascar  Liquid.' 

'  What  is  it  ?     Something  to  drink  ?  '  asked  Steerforth. 

'  To  drink  ?  '  returned  Miss  Mowcher,  stopping  to  slap  his  cheek.  '  To  doctor  his 
own  moustachios  with,  you  know.  There  was  a  woman  in  the  shop — elderly  female — 
quite  a  Griffin^who  had  never  even  heard  of  it  by  name.  "  Begging  pardon,  sir," 
said  the  Griffin  to  Charley,   "  it 's  not — not — not  rouge,  is  it  ?  "     "  Rouge,"  said 


SOME  OLIJ  SCENES,  AND  SOME  NEW  PEOPLE        215 

Charley  to  the  GriHin.  "  What  the  unmentionable  to  ears  polite,  do  you  think  I 
want  with  rouge  ?  "  "  No  offence,  sir,"  said  the  Griflin  ;  "  we  have  it  asked  for  by 
so  many  names,  1  thought  it  might  be."  Now  that,  my  child,'  continued  Miss  Movvfher, 
rubbing  ail  the  time  as  busily  as  ever,  '  is  another  instance  of  the  refreshing  humbug 
I  was  speaking  of.  /  do  something  in  that  way  myself— perhaps  a  good  deal — perhaps 
a  little — sharp  's  the  word,  my  dear  boy — never  mind  !  ' 

'  In  what  way  do  you  mean  ?     In  the  rouge  way  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  Put  this  and  that  together,  my  tender  pupil,'  returned  the  wary  Mowcher, 
touehing  her  nose,  '  work  it  by  the  rule  of  Secrets  in  all  trades,  and  the  product  will 
give  you  the  desired  result.  I  say  /  do  a  little  in  that  way  myself.  One  Dowager, 
she  calls  it  lip-salve.  Another,  she  calls  it  gloves.  Another,  she  calls  it  tucker-edging. 
Another,  she  calls  it  a  fan.  /  call  it  whatever  they  call  it.  I  supply  it  for  'em,  but  we 
keep  up  the  trick  so,  to  one  another,  and  make  believe  with  such  a  face,  that  they  'd 
as  soon  think  of  laying  it  on,  before  a  whole  drawing-room,  as  before  me.  And  when  I 
wait  upon  'em,  they  'II  say  to  me  sometimes— zoi'^A  it  on — thick,  and  no  mistake — "  How 
am  I  looking,  Mowcher  ?  Am  I  pale  ?  "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Isn't  that  refreshing, 
my  young  friend  !  ' 

I  never  did  in  my  days  behold  anything  like  Mowcher  as  she  stood  upon  the 
dining-table,  intensely  enjoying  this  refreshment,  rubbing  busily  at  Steerforth's  head, 
and  winking  at  me  over  it. 

'  Ah  !  '  she  said.  '  Such  things  are  not  much  in  demand  hereabouts.  That  sets 
me  off  again  !     I  haven't  seen  a  pretty  woman  since  I  've  been  here,  Jemmy.' 

'  No  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  Not  the  ghost  of  one,'  replied  Miss  Mowcher. 

'  We  could  show  her  the  substance  of  one,  I  think  ?  '  said  Steerforth,  addressing 
his  eyes  to  mine.     '  Eh,  Daisy  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  indeed,'  said  I. 

'  Aha  ?  '  cried  the  little  creature,  glancing  sharply  at  my  face,  and  then  peeping 
round  at  Steerforth's.     '  Umph  ?  ' 

The  first  exclamation  sounded  like  a  question  put  to  both  of  us,  and  the  second 
like  a  question  put  to  Steerforth  only.  She  seemed  to  have  found  no  answer  to  either, 
but  continued  to  rub,  with  her  head  on  one  side  and  her  eye  turned  up,  as  if  she  were 
looking  for  an  answer  in  the  air,  and  were  confident  of  its  appearing  presently. 

'  A  sister  of  yours,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?  '  she  cried,  after  a  pause,  and  still  keeping 
the  same  look-out.     '  Aye,  aye  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  Steerforth,  before  I  could  reply.  '  Nothing  of  the  sort.  On  the 
contrary,  Mr.  Copperfield  used — or  I  am  much  mistaken — to  have  a  great  admiration 
for  her.' 

'  Why,  hasn't  he  now  ?  '  returned  Miss  Mowcher.  '  Is  he  fickle  ?  oh,  for  shame  ! 
Did  he  sip  every  flower,  and  change  every  hour,  until  Polly  his  passion  requited  ?  Is 
her  name  Polly  ?  ' 

The  elfin  suddenness  with  which  she  pounced  upon  me  with  this  question,  and  a 
searching  look,  quite  disconcerted  me  for  a  moment. 

'  No,  Miss  Mowcher,'  I  replied.     '  Her  name  is  Emily.' 

'  Aha  ?  '  she  cried  exactly  as  before.  '  Umph  ?  What  a  rattle  I  am  !  Mr. 
Copperfield,  ain't  I  volatile  ?  ' 

Her  tone  and  look  implied  something  that  was  not  agreeable  to  me  in  connection 
with  the  subject.     So  I  said,  in  a  graver  manner  than  any  of  us  had  yet  assumed — 


216  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  pretty.  She  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  most 
worthy  and  deserving  man  in  her  own  station  of  life.  I  esteem  her  for  her  good  sense, 
as  much  as  I  admire  her  for  her  good  looks.' 

'  Well  said  ! '  cried  Steerforth.  '  Hear,  hear,  hear  !  Now  I  'II  quench  the  curiosity 
of  this  little  Fatima,  my  dear  Daisy,  by  leaving  her  nothing  to  guess  at.  She  is  at 
present  apprenticed,  Miss  Mowcher,  or  articled,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  to  Omer  and 
Joram,  Haberdashers,  Milliners,  and  so  forth,  in  this  town.  Do  you  observe  ?  Omer 
and  Joram.  The  promise  of  which  my  friend  has  spoken,  is  made,  and  entered  into 
with  her  cousin  ;  Christian  name.  Ham ;  surname,  Peggotty ;  occupation,  boat- 
builder,  also  of  this  town.  She  lives  with  a  relative  ;  Christian  name,  unknown  ; 
surname,  Peggotty  ;  occupation,  seafaring  ;  also  of  this  town.  She  is  the  prettiest 
and  most  engaging  little  fairy  in  the  world.  I  admire  her — as  my  friend  does — 
exceedingly.  If  it  were  not  that  I  might  appear  to  disparage  her  intended,  which  I 
know  my  friend  would  not  like,  I  would  add,  that  to  vie  she  seems  to  be  throwing  herself 
away  ;  that  I  am  sure  she  might  do  better  ;  and  that  I  swear  she  was  born  to  be  a  lady.' 

Miss  Mowcher  listened  to  these  words,  which  were  very  slowly  and  distinctly 
spoken,  with  her  head  on  one  side,  and  her  eye  in  the  air,  as  if  she  were  still  looking  for 
that  answer.  When  he  ceased  she  became  brisk  again  in  an  instant,  and  rattled  away 
with  surprising  volubility. 

'  Oh,  and  that  's  all  about  it,  is  it  ?  '  she  exclaimed,  trimming  his  whiskers  with  a 
little  restless  pair  of  scissors,  that  went  glancing  round  his  head  in  all  directions.  '  Very 
well  :  very  well  !  Quite  a  long  story.  Ought  to  end  "  and  they  lived  happy  ever 
afterwards  "  ;  oughtn't  it  ?  Ah  !  What 's  that  game  at  forfeits  ?  I  love  my  love 
with  an  E,  because  she  's  enticing  :  I  hate  her  with  an  E,  because  she  's  engaged.  I 
took  her  to  the  sign  of  the  exquisite,  and  treated  her  with  an  elopement ;  her  name  's 
Emily,  and  she  lives  in  the  east  ?     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Mr.  Copperfield,  ain't  I  volatile  ?  ' 

Merely  looking  at  me  with  extravagant  slyness,  and  not  waiting  for  any  reply, 
she  continued,  without  drawing  breath — 

'  There  !  If  ever  any  scapegrace  was  trimmed  and  touched  up  to  perfection, 
you  are,  Steerforth.  If  I  understand  any  noddle  in  the  world,  I  understand  yours. 
Do  you  hear  me  when  I  tell  you  that,  my  darling  ?  I  understand  yours,'  peeping 
down  into  his  face.  '  Now  you  may  mizzle,  Jemmy  (as  we  say  at  Court),  and  if 
Mr.  Copperfield  will  take  the  chair  I  '11  operate  on  him.' 

'  What  do  you  say,  Daisy  ?  '  inquired  Steerforth,  laughing,  and  resigning  his 
seat.     '  Will  you  be  improved  ?  ' 

'  Thank  you,  Miss  Mowcher,  not  this  evening.' 

'  Don't  say  no,'  returned  the  little  woman,  looking  at  me  with  the  aspect  of  a 
connoisseur  ;    '  a  little  bit  more  eyebrow  ?  ' 

'  Thank  you,'  I  returned,  '  some  other  time.' 

'  Have  it  carried  half  a  quarter  of  an  inch  towards  the  temple,'  said  Miss  Mowcher. 
'  We  can  do  it  in  a  fortnight.' 

'  No,  I  thank  you.     Not  at  present,' 

'  Go  in  for  a  tip,'  she  urged.  '  No  ?  Let 's  get  the  scaffolding  up,  then,  for  a  pair 
of  whiskers.     Come  !  ' 

I  could  not  help  blushing  as  I  declined,  for  I  felt  we  were  on  my  weak  point,  now. 
But  Miss  Mowcher,  finding  that  I  was  not  at  present  disposed  for  any  decoration 
within  the  range  of  her  art,  and  that  I  was,  for  the  time  being,  proof  against  the  blandish- 
ments of  the  small  bottle  which  she  held  up  before  one  eye  to  enforce  her  persuasions. 


SOME  OLD  SCENES,  AND  SOME  NEW  PEOPLE       217 

said  she  would  make  a  heginiiing  on  an  early  day,  and  requested  flie  aid  of  my  }iarifl 
to  descend  from  her  elevated  station.      'J'fius  assisted,  he  skij>jjed  down  witli  mneh 
agility,  and  hegan  to  tie  her  double-chin  into  her  bonnet. 
'  The  fee,'  said  Steerforth,  '  is —    ' 

'  Five  bol),'  replied  Miss  Mowcher,  '  and  dirt  cheap,  my  chicken.  Ain't  1  volatile, 
Mr.  Copperficid  ?  ' 

I  replied  politely  :  '  Not  at  all.'  Hut  1  thought  slie  was  rather  so,  when  she 
tossed  up  his  two  half-crowns  like  a  goblin  j)ieman,  cauglit  them,  dropped  them  in  her 
pocket,  and  gave  it  a  loud  slap. 

'  That 's  the  till  !  '  observed  Miss  Mowcher,  standing  at  the  chair  again,  and 
replacing  in  the  bag  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  little  objects  she  had  emptied  out  of  it. 
'  Have  I  got  all  my  traps  ?  It  seems  so.  It  won't  do  to  be  like  long  Ned  Headwood, 
when  they  took  him  to  church  "  to  marry  him  to  somebody,"  as  he  say.s,  and  left  the 
bride  behind.  Ila  !  ha  !  ha  !  A  wicked  rascal,  Ned,  but  droll  !  Now,  I  know  I  'm 
going  to  break  your  hearts,  but  I  am  forced  to  leave  you.  You  must  call  up  all  your 
fortitude,  and  try  to  bear  it.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Copperfield  !  Take  care  of  yourself, 
Jockey  of  Norfolk  !  How  I  have  l)een  rattling  on  !  It 's  all  the  fault  of  you  two 
wretches.  /  forgive  you  !  "  Bob  swore  !  "■ — as  the  Englishman  said  for  "  Good 
night,"  when  he  first  learnt  French,  and  thought  it  so  like  English.  "  Bob  swore," 
my  ducks  !  ' 

With  the  bag  slimg  over  her  arm,  and  rattling  as  she  waddled  away,  she  waddled 
to  the  door  ;  where  she  stopped  to  inquire  if  she  should  leave  us  a  lock  of  her  hair. 
'  Ain't  I  volatile  ?  '  she  added,  as  a  commentarj'^  on  this  offer,  and,  with  her  finger  on 
her  nose,  departed. 

Steerforth  laughed  to  that  degree,  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  help  laughing 
too  ;  though  I  am  not  sure  I  should  have  done  so,  but  for  this  inducement.  When  we 
had  had  our  laugh  quite  out,  which  was  after  some  time,  he  told  me  tliat  Miss  Mowcher 
had  quite  an  extensive  connection,  and  made  herself  useful  to  a  variety  of  people  in  a 
variety  of  ways.  Some  people  trifled  with  her  as  a  mere  oddity,  he  .said  ;  but  .she  was 
as  shrewdly  and  sharply  observant  as  any  one  he  knew,  and  as  long-headed  as  she  was 
short-armed.  He  told  me  that  what  she  had  said  of  being  here,  and  there,  and  every- 
where, was  true  enough  ;  for  she  made  little  darts  into  the  provinces,  and  seemed  to 
pick  up  customers  everywhere,  and  to  know  everybody.  I  asked  him  what  her  dis- 
position was  :  whether  it  was  at  all  mischievous,  and  if  her  sympathies  were  generally 
on  the  right  side  of  things  :  but,  not  succeeding  in  attracting  his  attention  to  these 
questions  after  two  or  three  attempts,  I  forebore  or  forgot  to  repeat  them.  He  told 
me  instead,  with  much  rapidity,  a  good  deal  about  her  skill,  and  her  profits  :  and  about 
her  being  a  scientific  cupper,  if  I  should  ever  have  occasion  for  her  service  in  that 
capacity. 

She  was  the  principal  theme  of  our  conversation  during  the  evening  :  and  when 
we  parted  for  the  night  Steerforth  called  after  me  over  the  banisters,  '  Bob  swore  !  ' 
as  I  went  downstairs. 

I  was  sTirprised.  when  I  came  to  Air.  Barkis's  house,  to  find  Ham  walking  up  and 
down  in  front  of  it,  and  still  more  surprised  to  learn  from  him  that  little  Em'ly  was 
inside.  I  naturally  inquired  why  he  was  not  there  too,  instead  of  pacing  the  streets 
by  himself  ? 

'  Why,  you  see,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  rejoined  in  a  hesitating  manner,  '  Em'ly,  she  's 
talking  to  some  'un  in  here.' 


218  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  I  should  have  thought,"  said  I,  smiling,  '  that  that  was  a  reason  for  your  being 
in  here  too,  Ham.' 

'  Well,  Mas'r  Davy,  in  a  general  way,  so  't  would  be,'  he  returned  ;  '  but  look'ee 
here,  Mas'r  Davy,'  lowering  his  voice,  and  speaking  very  gravely.  '  It 's  a  young 
woman,  sir — a  young  woman,  that  Em'ly  knowed  once,  and  doen't  ought  to  know 
no  more.' 

When  I  heard  these  words,  a  light  began  to  fall  upon  the  figure  I  had  seen  following 
them,  some  hours  ago. 

'  It 's  a  poor  wurem,  Mas'r  Davy,'  said  Ham,  '  as  is  trod  underfoot  by  all  the 
town.  Up  street  and  down  street.  The  mowld  o'  the  churchyard  don't  hold  any  that 
the  folk  shrink  away  from,  more.' 

'  Did  I  see  her  to-night.  Ham,  on  the  sands  after  we  met  you  ?  ' 

'  Keeping  us  in  sight  ?  '  said  Ham.  '  It  's  like  you  did,  Mas'r  Davy.  Not  that 
I  know'd  then,  she  was  theer,  sir,  but  along  of  her  creeping  soon  arterwards,  under 
Em'ly's  little  winder,  when  she  see  the  light  come,  and  whisp'ring  "  Em'ly,  Em'ly, 
for  Christ's  sake,  have  a  woman's  heart  towards  me.  I  was  once  like  you  !  "  Those 
was  solemn  words,  Mas'r  Davy,  fur  to  hear  !  ' 

'  They  were  indeed,  Ham.     What  did  Em'ly  do  ?  ' 

'  Says  Em'ly,  "  Martha,  is  it  you  ?  Oh,  Martha,  can  it  be  you  ?  " — for  they  had 
sat  at  work  together,  many  a  day,  at  Mr.  Omer's.' 

'  I  recollect  her  now  !  '  cried  I,  recalling  one  of  the  two  girls  I  had  seen  when  I  first 
went  there.     '  I  recollect  her  quite  well  !  ' 

'  Martha  Endell,'  said  Ham.  '  Two  or  three  year  older  than  Em'ly,  but  was  at 
the  school  with  her.' 

'  I  never  heard  her  name,'  said  I.     '  I  didn't  mean  to  interrupt  you.' 

'  For  the  matter  o'  that,  Mas'r  Davy,'  replied  Ham,  '  all  's  told  a'most  in  them 
words,  "  Em'ly,  Em'ly,  for  Christ's  sake  have  a  woman's  heart  towards  me.  I  was 
once  like  you  !  "  She  wanted  to  speak  to  Em'ly.  Em'ly  couldn't  speak  to  her  theer, 
for  her  loving  uncle  was  come  home,  and  he  wouldn't — no,  Mas'r  Davy,'  said  Ham, 
with  great  earnestness,  '  he  couldn't,  kind-natur'd,  tender-hearted  as  he  is,  see  them 
two  together,  side  by  side,  for  all  the  treasures  that 's  wrecked  in  the  sea.' 

I  felt  how  true  this  was.     I  knew  it,  on  the  instant,  quite  as  well  as  Ham. 

'  So  Em'ly  writes  in  pencil  on  a  bit  of  paper,'  he  pursued,  '  and  gives  it  to  her  out 
o'  window  to  bring  here.  "  Show  that,"  she  says,  "  to  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Barkis,  and  she  '11 
set  you  down  by  her  fire,  for  the  love  of  me,  till  uncle  is  gone  out,  and  I  can  come." 
By  and  by  she  tells  me  what  I  tell  you,  Mas'r  Davy,  and  asks  me  to  bring  her.  What 
can  I  do  ?  She  doen't  ought  to  know  any  such,  but  I  can't  deny  her,  when  the  tears 
is  on  her  face.' 

He  put  his  hand  into  the  breast  of  his  shaggy  jacket,  and  took  out  with  great  care 
a  pretty  little  purse. 

'  And  if  I  could  deny  her  when  the  tears  was  on  her  face,  Mas'r  Davy,'  said  Ham, 
tenderly  adjusting  it  on  the  rough  palm  of  his  hand,  '  how  could  I  deny  her  when  she 
gave  me  this  to  carry  for  her — knowing  what  she  brought  it  for  ?  Such  a  toy  as  it  is  !  ' 
said  Ham,  thoughtfully  looking  on  it.     '  With  such  a  little  money  in  it,  Em'ly  my  dear  ! ' 

I  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand  when  he  had  put  it  away  again — for  that  was 
more  satisfactory  to  me  than  saying  anything — and  we  walked  up  and  down,  for  a 
minute  or  two,  in  silence.  The  door  opened  then,  and  Peggotty  appeared,  beckoning 
to  Ham  to  come  in.     I  would  have  kept  away,  but  she  came  after  me,  entreating  me 


SOME  OLD  SCENES,  AND  SOME  NEW  PEOPLE        2] 9 

to  come  in  too.  Even  then,  I  would  have  avoided  the  room  where  they  all  were,  Ijiit 
for  its  being  the  neat-tiled  kitchen  I  have  mentioned  more  tlian  once.  The  door 
opening  immediately  into  it,  I  found  myself  among  them,  before  I  considered  whither 
I  was  goiiif,'. 

The  girl—  the  same  I  had  seen  upon  the  sands — was  near  the  fire.  She  was  sitting 
on  the  ground,  with  her  head  and  one  arm  lying  on  a  chair.  I  fancied,  from  the 
disposition  of  her  figure,  tliat  Em'ly  had  but  newly  risen  from  the  chair,  and  that  the 
forlorn  head  might  perhaps  have  been  lying  on  lier  lap.  I  saw  but  little  of  the  girl's 
face,  over  which  her  hair  fell  loose  and  scattered,  as  if  she  had  been  disordering  it  with 
her  own  hands  ;  but  I  saw  that  she  was  young,  and  of  a  fair  complexion.  Peggotty 
had  been  crying.  So  had  little  Em'ly.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  when  we  first  went  in  ; 
and  the  Dutch  clock  by  the  dresser  seemed,  in  the  silence,  to  tick  twice  as  loud  as  usual. 

Em'ly  spoke  first. 

'  Martha  wants,'  she  said  to  Ham,  '  to  go  to  London.' 

'  Why  to  London  ?  '  returned  ILam. 

He  stood  between  them,  looking  on  the  prostrate  girl  with  a  mixture  of  compassion 
for  her,  and  of  jealousy  of  her  holding  any  companionship  with  her  whom  he  loved  so 
well,  which  I  have  always  remembered  distinctly.  They  both  spoke  as  if  she  were 
ill ;  in  a  soft,  suppressed  tone  that  was  plainly  heard,  although  it  hardly  rose  above 
a  whisper. 

'  Better  there  than  here,'  said  a  third  voice  aloud — Martha's,  though  she  did  not 
move.     '  No  one  knows  me  there.     Everybody  knows  me  here.' 

'  What  will  she  do  there  ?  '  intjuired  Ilam. 

She  lifted  up  her  head,  and  looked  darkly  round  at  him  for  a  moment  ;  then  laid 
it  down  again,  and  curved  her  right  arm  about  her  neck,  as  a  woman  in  a  fever,  or  in  an 
agony  of  pain  from  a  shot,  might  twist  herself. 

'  She  will  try  to  do  well,'  said  little  Em'ly.  '  You  don't  know  what  she  has  said 
to  us.     Does  he — do  they — aunt  ?  ' 

Peggotty  shook  her  head  compassionately. 

'  I  'II  try,'  said  Martha,  '  if  you  'II  help  me  away.  I  never  can  do  worse  than  I 
have  done  here.  I  may  do  better.  Oh  !  '  with  a  dreadful  shiver,  '  take  me  out  of  these 
streets,  where  the  whole  town  knows  me  from  a  child  !  ' 

As  Em'ly  held  out  her  hand  to  Ham,  I  saw  him  put  in  it  a  little  canvas  bag. 
She  took  it,  as  if  she  thought  it  were  her  purse,  and  made  a  step  or  two  forward  ;  but 
finding  her  mistake,  came  back  to  where  he  had  retired  near  me,  and  showed  it  to 
him. 

'  It 's  all  yourn,  Em'ly,'  I  could  hear  him  say.  '  I  have  nowt  in  all  the  wxireld 
that  ain't  yourn,  my  dear.     It  ain't  of  no  delight  to  me,  except  for  you  !  ' 

The  tears  rose  freshly  in  her  eyes,  but  she  turned  away  and  went  to  Martha. 
What  she  gave  her,  I  don't  know.  I  saw  her  stooping  over  her,  and  putting  money  in 
her  bosom.  She  whispered  something,  as  she  asked  was  that  enough  ?  '  More  than 
enough,'  the  other  said,  as  she  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

Then  Martha  arose,  and  gathering  her  shawl  about  her,  covering  her  face  with  it, 
and  weeping  aloud,  went  slowly  to  the  door.  She  stopped  a  moment  before  going  out, 
as  if  she  would  have  uttered  something  or  turned  back  ;  but  no  word  passed  her  lips. 
Making  the  same  low,  dreary,  wretched  moaning  in  her  shawl,  she  went  away. 

As  the  door  closed,  little  Em'ly  looked  at  us  three  in  a  hurried  manner,  and  then 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  fell  to  sobbing. 


220  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Doen't,  Em'ly  !  '  said  Ham,  tapping  her  gently  on  the  shoulder.  '  Doen't,  my 
dear  !     You  doen't  ought  to  cry  so,  pretty  !  ' 

'  Oh,  Ham  !  '  she  exclaimed,  still  weeping  pitifully,  '  I  am  not  as  good  a  girl  as  I 
ought  to  be  !     I  know  I  have  not  the  thankful  heart,  sometimes,  I  ought  to  have  ! ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  you  have,  I  'm  sure,'  said  Ham. 

'  No  !  no  !  no  !  '  cried  little  Em'ly,  sobbing  and  shaking  her  head.  '  I  am  not 
as  good  a  girl  as  I  ought  to  be.     Not  near  !   not  near  !  ' 

And  still  she  cried,  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

'  I  try  your  love  too  much.  I  know  I  do  !  '  she  sobbed.  '  I  'm  often  cross  to  you, 
and  changeable  with  you,  when  I  ought  to  be  far  different.  You  are  never  so  to  me. 
Why  am  I  ever  so  to  you,  when  I  should  think  of  nothing  but  how  to  be  grateful,  and 
to  make  you  happy  !  ' 

'  You  always  make  me  so,'  said  Ham,  '  my  dear  !  I  am  happy  in  the  sight  of  you. 
I  am  happy,  all  day  long,  in  the  thoughts  of  you.' 

'  Ah  !  that 's  not  enough  !  '  she  cried.  '  That  is  because  you  are  good  ;  not 
because  I  am  !  Oh,  my  dear,  it  might  have  been  a  better  fortune  for  you,  if  you  had 
been  fond  of  some  one  else — of  some  one  steadier  and  much  worthier  than  me,  who 
was  all  bound  up  in  you,  and  never  vain  and  changeable  like  me  !  ' 

'  Poor  little  tender-heart,'  said  Ham,  in  a  low  voice.  '  Martha  has  overset  her, 
altogether.' 

'  Please,  aimt,'  sobbed  Em'ly,  '  come  here,  and  let  me  lay  my  head  upon  you. 
Oh,  I  am  very  miserable  to-night,  aunt  !  Oh,  I  am  not  as  good  a  girl  as  I  ought  to  be. 
I  am  not,  I  know  !  ' 

Peggotty  had  hastened  to  the  chair  before  the  fire.  Em'ly,  with  her  arms  around 
her  neck,  kneeled  by  her,  looking  up  most  earnestly  into  her  face. 

'  Oh,  pray,  aunt,  try  to  help  me  !  Ham,  dear,  try  to  help  me  !  Mr.  David,  for 
the  sake  of  old  times,  do,  please,  try  to  help  me  !  I  want  to  be  a  better  girl  than  I  am. 
I  want  to  feel  a  hundred  times  more  thankful  than  I  do.  I  want  to  feel  more,  what 
a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  be  the  wife  of  a  good  man,  and  to  lead  a  peaceful  life.  Oh  me, 
oh  me  !     Oh  my  heart,  my  heart  !  ' 

She  dropped  her  face  on  my  old  nurse's  breast,  and,  ceasing  this  supplication, 
which  in  its  agony  and  grief  was  half  a  woman's,  half  a  child's,  as  all  her  manner  was 
(being,  in  that,  more  natural,  and  better  suited  to  her  beauty,  as  I  thought,  than  any 
other  manner  could  have  been),  wept  silently,  while  my  old  nurse  hushed  her  like  an 
infant. 

She  got  calmer  by  degrees,  and  then  we  soothed  her  ;  now  talking  encouragingly, 
and  now  jesting  a  little  with  her,  until  she  began  to  raise  her  head  and  speak  to  us. 
So  we  got  on,  until  she  was  able  to  smile,  and  then  to  laugh,  and  then  to  sit  up,  half- 
ashamed  ;  while  Peggotty  recalled  her  stray  ringlets,  dried  her  eyes,  and  made  her 
neat  again,  lest  her  uncle  should  wonder,  when  she  got  home,  why  his  darling  had 
been  crying. 

I  .saw  her  do,  that  night,  what  I  had  never  seen  her  do  before.  I  saw  her  innocently 
kiss  her  chosen  husband  on  the  cheek,  and  creep  close  to  his  bluff  form  as  if  it  were  her 
best  support.  When  they  went  away  together,  in  the  waning  moonlight,  and  I  looked 
after  them,  comparing  their  departure  in  my  mind  with  Martha's,  I  saw  that  she  held 
his  arm  with  both  her  hands,  and  still  kept  close  to  him. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

1    COKUOBOKATE    »ll{.    DICK,    AND    CHOOSE    A    IMIOKESSION 

WHEN  I  awoke  in  the  inorning  I  thought  very  much  of  little  Em'ly,  and 
licr  cniotiou  last  night,  after  Martiia  had  left.  I  fell  us  if  I  had  eonie 
into  the  knowledge  of  those  domestic  weaknesses  and  tendernesses  in  a 
sacred  confidence,  and  that  to  disclose  them,  even  to  Stecrforth,  would 
be  wrong.  I  had  no  gentler  feeling  towards  an}'  one  than  towards  the  pretty  creature 
who  liad  been  my  playmate,  and  whom  I  have  always  been  persuaded,  and  shall  always 
be  persuaded,  to  my  dying  day,  I  then  devotedly  loved.  The  repetition  to  any  ears — 
even  to  Steerforth's — of  what  she  had  been  unable  to  repress  when  her  heart  lay  open 
to  me  by  an  accident,  I  felt  would  be  a  rough  deed,  unworthy  of  myself,  unworthy  of 
the  light  of  our  pure  childhood,  which  I  always  saw  encircling  her  head.  I  made  a 
resolution,  therefore,  to  keep  it  in  my  own  l)reast ;  and  there  it  gave  her  image  a  new 
grace. 

While  we  were  at  breakfast,  a  letter  was  delivered  to  me  from  my  aunt.  As 
it  contained  matter  on  which  I  thought  Steerforth  eould  advise  me  as  well  as  any  one, 
and  on  which  I  knew  I  should  be  delighted  to  consult  him,  I  resolved  to  make  it  a 
subject  of  discussion  on  our  journey  home.  For  the  present  we  had  enough  to  do,  in 
taking  leave  of  all  our  friends.  Mr.  Barkis  was  far  from  being  the  last  among  them, 
in  his  regret  at  our  departure  ;  and  I  believe  would  even  have  opened  the  box  again, 
and  sacrificed  another  guinea,  if  it  would  have  kept  us  eight-and-forty  hours  in  Yar- 
mouth. Peggotty  and  ail  her  family  were  full  of  grief  at  our  going.  The  whole  house 
of  Omer  and  Joram  turned  out  to  bid  us  good-bye  ;  and  there  were  so  many  seafaring 
V'Olunteers  in  attendance  on  Steerforth,  when  our  portmanteaus  went  to  the  coach,  that 
if  we  had  had  the  baggage  of  a  regiment  with  us,  we  should  hardly  have  wanted  porters 
to  carry  it.  In  a  word,  we  departed  to  the  regret  and  admiration  of  all  concerned,  and 
left  a  great  many  people  very  sorry  behind  us. 

'  Do  you  stay  long  here,  Littimer  ?'  said  I,  as  he  stood  waiting  to  see  the  coach  start. 

'  No,  sir,'  he  replied  ;   '  probably  not  very  long,  sir.' 

'  He  can  hardly  say,  just  now,'  observed  Steerforth,  carelessly.  '  He  knows 
what  he  has  to  do,  and  he  '11  do  it.' 

'  That  I  am  sure  he  will,'  said  I. 

Littimer  touched  his  hat  in  acknowledgment  of  my  good  opinion,  and  I  felt  about 
eight  years  old.  He  touched  it  once  more,  wishing  us  a  good  journey  ;  and  we  left 
him  standing  on  the  pavement,  as  respectable  a  mystery  as  any  pyramid  in  Egypt. 

For  some  little  time  we  held  no  conversation,  Steerforth  being  unusually  silent, 
and  I  being  sufficiently  engaged  in  wondering,  within  myself,  when  I  should  see  the  old 
places  again,  and  what  new  changes  might  happen  to  me  or  them  in  the  meanwhile. 
At  length  Steerforth,  becoming  gay  and  talkative  in  a  moment,  as  he  could  become 
anything  he  liked  at  any  moment,  pulled  me  by  the  arm — 

'  Find  a  voice,  David.     What  about  the  letter  you  were  speaking  of  at  breakfast  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  '  said  I,  taking  it  out  of  my  pocket.     '  It  's  from  my  aunt.' 

'  And  what  does  she  say,  requiring  consideration  ?  ' 


222  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Why,  she  reminds  me,  Steerforth,'  said  I,  '  that  I  came  out  on  this  expedition 
to  look  about  me,  and  to  think  a  Httle.' 

'  Which,  of  course,  you  have  done  ?  ' 

'  Indeed  I  can't  say  I  have,  particularly.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  afraid  I 
had  forgotten  it.' 

'  Well  !  look  about  you  now,  and  make  up  for  your  negligence,'  said  Steerforth. 
'  Look  to  the  right,  and  you  '11  see  a  flat  country,  with  a  good  deal  of  marsh  in 
it ;  look  to  the  left,  and  you  '11  see  the  same.  Look  to  the  front,  and  you  '11  find  no 
difference  ;  look  to  the  rear,  and  there  it  is  still.' 

I  laughed,  and  replied  that  I  saw  no  suitable  profession  in  the  whole  prospect ; 
which  was  perhaps  to  be  attributed  to  its  flatness. 

'  What  says  our  aunt  on  the  subject  ?  '  inquired  Steerforth,  glancing  at  the  letter 
in  my  hand.     '  Does  she  suggest  anything  ?  ' 

'  Why,  yes,'  said  I.  '  She  asks  me,  here,  if  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  a  proctor  ? 
What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  ' 

'  Well,  I  don't  know,'  replied  Steerforth,  coolly.  '  You  may  as  well  do  that  as 
anything  else,  I  suppose  !  ' 

I  could  not  help  laughing  again,  at  his  balancing  all  callings  and  professions  so 
equally  ;   and  I  told  him  so. 

'  What  is  a  proctor,  Steerforth  ?  '  said  I. 

'  Why,  he  is  a  sort  of  monkish  attorney,'  replied  Steerforth.  '  He  is,  to  some 
faded  courts  held  in  Doctors'  Commons — a  lazy  old  nook  near  St.  Paul's  Churchyard — 
what  solicitors  are  to  the  courts  of  law  and  equity.  He  is  a  functionary  whose  exist- 
ence, in  the  natural  course  of  things,  would  have  terminated  about  two  hundred  years 
ago.  I  can  tell  you  best  what  he  is,  by  telling  you  what  Doctors'  Commons  is.  It 's  a 
little  out-of-the-way  place,  where  they  administer  what  is  called  ecclesiastical  law,  and 
play  all  kinds  of  tricks  with  obsolete  old  monsters  of  Acts  of  Parliament,  which  three- 
fourths  of  the  world  know  nothing  about,  and  the  other  fourth  supposes  to  have  been 
dug  up,  in  a  fossil  state,  in  the  days  of  the  Edwards.  It 's  a  place  that  has  an  ancient 
monopoly  in  suits  about  people's  wills  and  people's  marriages,  and  disputes  among 
ships  and  boats.' 

'  Nonsense,  Steerforth  !  '  I  exclaimed.  '  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  there  is 
any  affinity  between  nautical  matters  and  ecclesiastical  matters  ?  ' 

'  I  don't,  indeed,  my  dear  boy,'  he  returned  ;  '  but  I  mean  to  say  that  they  are 
managed  and  decided  by  the  same  set  of  people,  down  in  that  same  Doctors'  Commons. 
You  shall  go  there  one  day,  and  find  them  blundering  through  half  the  nautical  terms  in 
Young's  Dictionary,  apropos  of  the  "  Nancy  "  having  run  down  the  "  Sarah  Jane," 
or  Mr.  Peggotty  and  the  Yarmouth  boatmen  having  put  off  in  a  gale  of  wind  with  an 
anchor  and  cable  to  the  "  Nelson  "  Indiaman  in  distress  ;  and  you  shall  go  there 
another  day,  and  find  them  deep  in  the  evidence,  pro  and  con,  respecting  a  clergyman 
who  has  misbehaved  himself  ;  and  you  shall  find  the  judge  in  the  nautical  case,  the 
advocate  in  the  clergyman's  case,  or  contrariwise.  They  are  like  actors  :  now  a  man  's 
a  judge,  and  how  he  is  not  a  judge  ;  now  he  's  one  thing,  now  he  's  another  ;  now  he  's 
something  else,  change  and  change  about ;  but  it 's  always  a  very  pleasant  profitable 
little  affair  of  private  theatricals,  presented  to  an  uncommonly  select  audience.' 

'  But  advocates  and  proctors  are  not  one  and  the  same  ?  '  said  I,  a  little  puzzled. 
'  Are  they  ?  ' 

'  No,'  returned  Steerforth,  '  the  advocates  are  civilians — men  who  have  taken  a 


I  CHOOSi:  A    PROFESSION  228 

doctor's  degree  at  college — which  is  the  (irst  reason  of  my  knowing  anything  ahout  it. 
The  proctors  ennploy  the  advocates.  Both  get  very  comfortahle  fees,  and  altogether 
they  make  a  mighty  snng  little  party.  On  the  whole,  I  would  recornniend  you  to  take 
to  Doctors'  Commons  kindly,  David.  They  plume  themselves  on  their  gentility  there, 
I  can  tell  you,  if  that 's  any  satisfaction.' 

I  made  allowance  for  Steerforth's  light  way  of  treating  the  subject,  and,  consider- 
ing it  witli  reference  to  the  staid  air  of  gravity  and  antiquity  which  I  associated  with 
that  '  lazy  old  nook  near  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,'  did  not  feel  indisposed  towards  my 
aunt's  suggestion ;  which  she  left  to  my  free  decision,  making  no  scruple  of  telling  me 
that  it  had  occurred  to  her,  on  her  lately  visiting  her  own  proctor  in  Doctors'  Commons 
for  the  purpose  of  settling  her  will  in  my  favour. 

'  That 's  a  laudable  proceeding  on  the  part  of  our  aunt,  at  all  events,'  said  Steer- 
forth,  when  I  mentioned  it ;  '  and  one  deserving  of  all  encouragement.  Daisy,  my 
advice  is  that  you  take  kindly  to  Doctors'  Commons.' 

I  quite  made  up  my  mind  to  do  so.  I  then  told  Steerforth  that  my  aunt  was  in 
town  awaiting  me  (as  I  found  from  her  letter),  and  that  she  had  taken  lodgings  for  a 
week  at  a  kind  of  private  hotel  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  where  there  was  a  stone  stair- 
case, and  a  convenient  door  in  the  roof  ;  my  aunt  being  firmly  persuaded  that  every 
house  in  London  was  going  to  be  burnt  down  every  night. 

We  achieved  the  rest  of  our  journey  pleasantly,  sometimes  recurring  to  Doctors' 
Commons,  and  anticipating  the  distant  days  when  I  should  be  a  proctor  there,  which 
Steerforth  pictured  in  a  variety  of  humorous  and  whimsical  lights,  that  made  us  both 
merry.  When  we  came  to  our  journey's  end,  he  went  home,  engaging  to  call  upon 
me  next  day  but  one  ;  and  I  drove  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  where  I  found  my  aunt  up, 
and  waiting  supper. 

If  I  had  been  round  the  world  since  we  parted,  we  could  hardly  have  been  better 
pleased  to  meet  again.  My  aunt  cried  outright  as  she  embraced  me  ;  and  said,  pre- 
tending to  laugh,  that  if  my  poor  mother  had  been  alive,  that  silly  little  creature  would 
have  shed  tears,  she  had  no  doubt. 

'  So  you  have  left  Mr.  Dick  behind,  aunt  ?  '  said  I.  '  I  am  sorry  for  that.  Ah, 
Janet,  how  do  you  do  ?  ' 

As  Janet  curtsied,  hoping  I  was  well,  I  observed  my  aunt's  visage  lengthen  very 
much. 

'  I  am  sorry  for  it,  too,'  said  my  aunt,  rubbing  her  nose.  '  I  have  had  no  peace  of 
mind,  Trot,  since  I  have  been  here.' 

Before  I  could  ask  why,  she  told  me. 

'  I  am  convinced,'  said  my  aunt,  laying  her  hand  with  melancholy  firmness  on  the 
table,  '  that  Dick's  character  is  not  a  character  to  keep  the  donkeys  off.  I  am  confident 
he  wants  strength  of  purpose.  I  ought  to  have  left  Janet  at  home,  instead,  and  then 
my  mind  might  perhaps  have  been  at  ease.  If  ever  there  was  a  donkey  trespassing  on 
my  green,'  said  my  aunt,  with  emphasis,  '  there  was  one  this  afternoon  at  four  o'clock. 
A  cold  feeling  came  over  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  I  know  it  w-as  a  donkey  !  ' 

I  tried  to  comfort  her  on  this  point,  but  she  rejected  consolation. 

'  It  was  a  donkey,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  it  was  the  one  with  the  stumpy  tail  which 
that  Murdering  sister  of  a  woman  rode,  when  she  came  to  my  house.'  This  had  been, 
ever  since,  the  only  name  my  aunt  knew  for  Miss  Murdstone.  '  If  there  is  any  donkey 
in  Dover,  whose  audacity  it  is  harder  to  me  to  bear  than  another's,  that,'  said  my 
aunt,  striking  the  table,  '  is  the  animal  !  ' 


224  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Janet  ventured  to  suggest  that  my  aunt  might  be  disturbing  herself  unnecessarily, 
and  that  she  believed  the  donkey  in  question  was  then  engaged  in  the  sand-and-gravel 
line  of  business,  and  was  not  available  for  purposes  of  trespass.  But  my  aunt  wouldn't 
hear  of  it. 

Supper  was  comfortably  served  and  hot,  though  my  aunt's  rooms  were  very  high 
up — whether  that  she  might  have  more  stone  stairs  for  her  money,  or  might  be  nearer 
to  the  door  in  the  roof,  I  don't  know — and  consisted  of  a  roast  fowl,  a  steak,  and  some 
vegetables,  to  all  of  which  I  did  ample  justice,  and  which  were  all  excellent.  But  my 
aunt  had  her  own  ideas  concerning  London  provision,  and  ate  but  little. 

'  I  suppose  this  unfortunate  fowl  was  bom  and  brought  up  in  a  cellar,'  said  my 
aunt,  '  and  never  took  the  air  except  on  a  hackney  coach-stand.  I  hope  the  steak  may 
be  beef,  but  I  don't  believe  it.  Nothing  's  genuine  in  the  place,  in  my  opinion,  but 
the  dirt.' 

'  Don't  you  think  the  fowl  may  have  come  out  of  the  country,  aunt  ?  '  I 
hinted. 

'  Certainly  not,'  returned  my  aunt.  '  It  would  be  no  pleasure  to  a  London  trades- 
man to  sell  anything  which  was  what  he  pretended  it  was.' 

I  did  not  venture  to  controvert  this  opinion,  but  I  made  a  good  supper,  which 
it  greatly  satisfied  her  to  see  me  do.  When  the  table  was  cleared,  Janet  assisted  her 
to  arrange  her  hair,  to  put  on  her  night-cap,  which  was  of  a  smarter  construction  than 
usual  ('  in  case  of  fire,'  my  aunt  said),  and  to  fold  her  gown  back  over  her  knees,  these 
being  her  usual  preparations  for  warming  herself  before  going  to  bed.  I  then  made 
her,  according  to  certain  established  regulations  from  which  no  deviation,  however 
slight,  could  ever  be  permitted,  a  glass  of  hot  white  wine  and  water,  and  a  slice  of 
toast  cut  into  long  thin  strips.  With  these  accompaniments  we  were  left  alone  to 
finish  the  evening,  my  aunt  sitting  opposite  to  me  drinking  her  wine  and  water  ; 
soaking  her  strips  of  toast  in  it,  one  by  one,  before  eating  them  ;  and  looking  benignantly 
on  me,  from  among  the  borders  of  her  night-cap. 

'  Well,  Trot,'  she  began,  '  what  do  you  think  of  the  proctor  plan  ?  Or  have  you 
not  begun  to  think  about  it  yet  ?  ' 

'  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  about  it,  my  dear  aunt,  and  I  have  talked  a  good  deal 
about  it  with  Steerforth.     I  like  it  very  much  indeed.     I  like  it  exceedingly.' 

'  Come,'  said  my  aunt.     '  That 's  cheering.' 

'  I  have  only  one  difficulty,  aunt.' 

'  Say  what  it  is.  Trot,'  she  returned. 

'  Why,  I  want  to  ask,  aunt,  as  this  seems,  from  what  I  understand,  to  be  a  limited 
profession,  whether  my  entrance  into  it  would  not  be  very  expensive  ?  ' 

'  It  will  cost,'  returned  my  aunt,  '  to  article  you,  just  a  thousand  pounds.' 

'  Now,  my  dear  aunt,'  said  I,  drawing  my  chair  nearer,  '  I  am  uneasy  in  my  mind 
about  that.  It 's  a  large  sum  of  money.  You  have  expended  a  great  deal  on  my 
education,  and  have  always  been  as  liberal  to  me  in  all  things,  as  it  was  possible  to  be. 
You  have  been  the  soul  of  generosity.  Surely  there  are  some  ways  in  which  I  might 
begin  life  with  hardly  any  outlay,  and  yet  begin  with  a  good  hope  of  getting  on  by 
resolution  and  exertion.  Are  you  sure  that  it  would  not  be  better  to  try  that  course  ? 
Are  you  certain  that  you  can  afford  to  part  with  so  much  money,  and  that  it  is  right 
that  it  should  be  so  expended  '/  I  only  ask  you,  my  second  mother,  to  consider. 
Are  you  certain  ?  ' 

My  aunt  finished  eating  the  piece  of  toast  on  which  she  was  then  engaged,  looking 


I   (JHOOSJ:  a    1'IU)FESS10N  22.5 

me  full  in  the  face  all  the  while  ;  and  then  setting  her  fjlass  on  the  chimney-piece,  anrl 
folding  her  hands  upon  her  folded  skirts,  replied  as  follows — 

'  Trot,  my  child,  if  I  have  any  object  in  life,  it  is  to  provide  for  your  beinj:; 
a  good,  a  sensible,  and  a  happy  man.  I  am  bent  upon  it — so  is  Dick.  I  should 
like  some  people  that  I  know  to  hear  Dick's  conversation  on  the  subject.  Its 
sagacity  is  wondcrfid.  But  no  one  knows  the  resources  of  that  man's  intellect 
except  myself  !  ' 

She  stopped  for  a  moment  to  take  my  hand  between  hers,  and  went  on — 

'  It 's  in  vain.  Trot,  to  recall  the  past,  unless  it  works  some  influence  upon  the 
present.  Perhaps  I  might  have  been  better  friends  with  your  poor  father.  Perhaps  I 
might  have  been  better  friends  with  that  poor  child  your  mother,  even  after  your 
sister  Betsey  Trotwood  disappointed  me.  When  you  came  to  me,  a  little  runaway 
boy,  all  dusty  and  wayworn,  perhaps  I  thought  so.  From  that  time  until  now.  Trot, 
you  have  ever  been  a  credit  to  me  and  a  pride  and  a  pleasure.  I  have  no  other  claim 
upon  my  means  ;  at  least ' — here  to  my  surprise  she  hesitated,  and  was  confused — '  no, 
I  have  no  other  claim  upon  my  means — and  you  are  my  adopted  child.  Only  be  a 
loving  child  to  me  in  my  age,  and  bear  with  my  whims  and  fancies  ;  and  you  vnW  do 
more  for  an  old  woman  whose  prime  of  life  was  not  so  happy  or  conciliating  as  it  might 
have  been,  than  ever  that  old  woman  did  for  you.' 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  my  aunt  refer  to  her  past  history.  There  was  a 
magnanimity  in  her  quiet  way  of  doing  so,  and  of  dismissing  it,  which  would  have 
exalted  her  in  my  respect  and  affection,  if  anything  could. 

'  All  is  agreed  and  understood  between  us  now.  Trot,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  we  need 
talk  of  this  no  more.  Give  me  a  kiss,  and  we  'II  go  to  the  Commons  after  breakfast 
to-morrow.' 

We  had  a  long  chat  by  the  fire  before  we  went  to  bed.  1  slept  in  a  room  on  the 
same  floor  with  my  aunt's,  and  was  a  little  disturbed  in  the  course  of  the  night  by  her 
knocking  at  my  door  as  often  as  she  was  agitated  by  a  distant  sound  of  hackney- 
coaches  or  market-carts,  and  inquiring  '  if  I  heard  the  engines  ?  '  But  towards  morning 
she  slept  better,  and  suffered  me  to  do  so  too. 

At  about  midday,  we  set  out  for  the  office  of  Messrs.  Spenlow  and  Jorkins,  in 
Doctors'  Commons.  My  aunt,  who  had  this  other  general  opinion  in  reference  to 
London,  that  every  man  she  saw  was  a  pickpocket,  gave  me  her  purse  to  carry  for 
her,  which  had  ten  guineas  in  it  and  some  silver. 

We  made  a  pause  at  the  toy-shop  in  Fleet  Street,  to  see  the  giants  of  Saint 
Dunstan's  strike  upon  the  bells — we  had  timed  our  going,  so  as  to  catch  them  at  it, 
at  twelve  o'clock — and  then  went  on  towards  Ludgate  Hill  and  St.  Paul's  Churchyard. 
We  were  crossing  to  the  former  place,  when  I  found  that  my  aunt  greatly  accelerated 
her  speed,  and  looked  frightened.  I  observed  at  the  same  time,  that  a  lowering 
ill-dressed  man  who  had  stopped  and  stared  at  us  in  passing,  a  little  before,  was  coming 
so  close  after  us,  as  to  brush  against  her. 

'  Trot !  My  dear  Trot  !  '  cried  my  aunt,  in  a  terrified  whisper,  and  pressing  my 
arm.     '  I  don't  know  what  I  am  to  do.' 

'  Don't  be  alarmed,'  said  I.  '  There  's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  Step  into  a  shop, 
and  I  '11  soon  get  rid  of  this  fellow.' 

'  No,  no,  child  !  '  she  returned.  '  Don't  speak  to  him  for  the  world.  I  entreat, 
I  order  you  !  ' 

'  Good  Heaven,  aunt  ! '  said  I.     '  He  is  nothing  but  a  sturdy  beggar.' 

H 


226  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  don't  know  what  he  is  !  '  repHed  my  aunt.  '  You  don't  know  who  he  is  ! 
You  don't  know  what  you  say  !  ' 

We  had  stopped  in  an  empty  doorway,  while  this  was  passing,  and  he  had 
stopped  too. 

'  Don't  look  at  him  !  '  said  my  aunt,  as  I  turned  my  head  indignantly,  '  but  get 
me  a  coach,  my  dear,  and  wait  for  me  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.' 

'  Wait  for  you  ?  '  I  repeated. 

'  Yes,'  rejoined  my  aunt.     '  I  must  go  alone.     I  must  go  with  him.' 

'  With  him,  aunt  ?     This  man  ?  ' 

'  I  am  in  my  senses,'  she  replied,  '  and  I  tell  you  I  must.     Get  me  a  coach  !  ' 

However  much  astonished  I  might  be,  I  was  sensible  that  I  had  no  right  to  refuse 
compliance  with  such  a  peremptory  command.  I  hurried  away  a  few  paces,  and 
called  a  hackney-chariot  which  was  passing  empty.  Almost  before  I  could  let  down 
the  steps,  my  aunt  sprang  in,  I  don't  know  how,  and  the  man  followed.  She  waved 
her  hand  to  me  to  go  away,  so  earnestly,  that,  all  confounded  as  I  was,  I  turned  from 
them  at  once.  In  doing  so,  I  heard  her  say  to  the  coachman,  '  Drive  anywhere  ! 
Drive  straight  on  !  '  and  presently  the  chariot  passed  me,  going  up  the  hill. 

What  Mr.  Dick  had  told  me,  and  what  I  had  supposed  to  be  a  delusion  of  his, 
now  came  into  my  mind.  I  could  not  doubt  that  this  person  was  the  person  of  whom 
he  had  made  such  mysterious  mention,  though  what  the  nature  of  his  hold  upon  mj^ 
aunt  could  possibly  be,  I  was  quite  unable  to  imagine.  After  half  an  hour's  cooling 
in  the  churchyard,  I  saw  the  chariot  coming  back.  The  driver  stopped  beside  me,  and 
my  aunt  was  sitting  in  it  alone. 

She  had  not  yet  sufficiently  recovered  from  her  agitation  to  be  quite  prepared 
for  the  visit  we  had  to  make.  She  desired  me  to  get  into  the  chariot,  and  to  tell  the 
coachman  to  drive  slowly  up  and  down  a  little  while.  She  said  no  more,  except, 
'  My  dear  child,  never  ask  me  what  it  was,  and  don't  refer  to  it,'  until  she  had  perfectly 
regained  her  composure,  when  she  told  me  she  was  quite  herself  now,  and  we  might 
get  out.  On  her  giving  me  her  purse,  to  pay  the  driver,  I  found  that  all  the  guineas 
were  gone,  and  only  the  loose  silver  remained. 

Doctors'  Commons  was  approached  by  a  little  low  archway.  Before  we  had 
taken  many  paces  down  the  street  beyond  it,  the  noise  of  the  city  seemed  to  melt,  as 
if  by  magic,  into  a  softened  distance.  A  few  dull  courts  and  narrow  ways  brought  us 
to  the  sky-lighted  offices  of  Spenlow  and  Jorkins  ;  in  the  vestibule  of  which  temple, 
accessible  to  pilgrims  without  the  ceremony  of  knocking,  three  or  four  clerks  were  at 
work  as  copyists.  One  of  these,  a  little  dry  man,  sitting  by  himself,  who  wore  a  stiff 
brown  wig  that  looked  as  if  it  were  made  of  gingerbread,  rose  to  receive  my  aunt,  and 
show  us  into  Mr.  Spenlow's  room. 

'  Mr.  Spenlow  's  in  Court,  ma'am,'  said  the  dry  man  ;  '  it 's  an  Arches  day  ;  but 
it 's  close  by,  and  I  '11  send  for  him  directly.' 

As  we  were  left  to  look  about  us  while  Mr.  Spenlow  was  fetched,  I  availed  myself 
of  the  opportunity.  The  furniture  of  the  room  was  old-fashioned  and  dusty  ;  and 
the  green  baize  on  the  top  of  the  writing-table  had  lost  all  its  colour,  and  was  as  withered 
and  pale  as  an  old  pauper.  There  were  a  great  many  bundles  of  papers  on  it,  some 
indorsed  as  Allegations,  and  some  (to  my  surprise)  as  Libels,  and  some  as  being  in  the 
Consistory  Court,  and  some  in  the  Arches  Court,  and  some  in  the  Prerogative  Court, 
and  some  in  the  Admiralty  Court,  and  some  in  the  Delegates'  Court ;  giving  me 
occasion  to  wonder  much,  how  many  Courts  there  might  be  in  the  gross,  and  how  long 


I  CHOOHK  A    PROFESSION  227 

it  would  take  to  understund  them  all.  Iksides  these,  there  were  sundry  immense 
nianuseript  Books  of  Evidence  taken  on  allidavit,  strongly  hound,  and  tied  together 
in  massive  sets,  a  set  to  each  cause,  as  if  every  cause  were  a  history  in  ten  or  twenty 
volumes.  Ail  this  looked  tolerably  expensive,  I  thought,  and  gave  me  an  agreeable 
notion  of  a  proctor's  business.  I  was  casting  my  eyes  with  increasing  complacency 
over  these  and  many  similar  objects,  when  hasty  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  room 
outside,  and  Mr.  Spenlow,  in  a  black  gown  trimmed  with  white  fur,  came  hurrying  in, 
taking  off  his  hat  as  he  came. 

He  was  a  little  light-haired  gentleman,  with  undeniable  boots,  and  the  stiffest  of 
white  cravats  and  shirt-collars.  He  was  buttoned  up  mighty  trim  and  tight,  and 
must  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  his  whiskers,  which  were  accurately  curled. 
His  gold  watch-chain  was  so  massive,  that  a  fancy  came  across  me,  that  he  ought 
to  have  a  sinewy  golden  arm,  to  draw  it  out  with,  like  those  which  are  put  u[)  over 
the  gold-beater's  shops.  He  was  got  up  with  such  care,  and  was  so  stiff,  that  he  could 
hardly  bend  himself  ;  being  obliged,  when  he  glanced  at  some  papers  on  his  desk, 
after  sitting  down  in  his  chair,  to  move  his  whole  body,  from  the  bottom  of  his  spine, 
like  Punch. 

I  had  previously  been  presented  by  my  aunt  and  had  been  courteously  received. 
He  now  said — 

'  And  so,  Mr.  Copperfield,  you  think  of  entering  into  our  profession  ?  I  casually 
mentioned  to  Miss  Trotwood,  when  I  had  the  pleasure  of  an  interview  with  her  the 
other  day,' — with  another  inclination  of  his  body — Punch  again—'  that  there  was  a 
vacancy  here.  Miss  Trotwood  was  good  enough  to  mention  that  she  had  a  nephew 
who  was  her  peculiar  care,  and  for  whom  she  was  seeking  to  provide  genteelly  in  life. 
That  nephew,  I  believe,  I  have  now  the  pleasure  of  ' — Punch  again. 

I  bowed  my  acknowledgments,  and  said,  my  aunt  had  mentioned  to  me  that  there 
was  that  opening,  and  that  I  believed  I  should  like  it  very  much.  That  I  was  strongly 
inclined  to  like  it,  and  had  taken  immediately  to  the  proposal.  That  I  could  not 
absolutely  pledge  myself  to  like  it,  until  I  knew  something  more  about  it.  That 
although  it  was  little  else  than  a  matter  of  form,  I  presumed  I  should  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  trying  how  I  liked  it,  before  I  bound  myself  to  it  irrevocably. 

'  Oh  surely  !  surely  !  '  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  '  We  always,  in  this  house,  propose  a 
month — an  initiatory  month.  I  should  be  happy,  myself,  to  propose  two  months — 
three — an  indefinite  period,  in  fact — but  I  have  a  partner.     Mr.  Jorkins.' 

'  And  the  premium,  sir,'  I  returned,  '  is  a  thousand  pounds.' 

'  And  the  premium,  stamp  included,  is  a  thousand  pounds,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow. 
'  As  I  have  mentioned  to  Miss  Trotwood,  I  am  actuated  by  no  mercenary  considera- 
tions ;  few  men  are  less  so,  I  believe  ;  but  Mr.  Jorkins  has  his  opinions  on  these 
subjects,  and  I  am  bound  to  respect  Mr.  Jorkins's  opinions.  Mr.  Jorkins  thinks  a 
thousand  pounds  too  little,  in  short.' 

'  I  suppose,  sir,'  said  I,  still  desiring  to  spare  my  aunt,  '  that  it  is  not  the  custom 
here,  if  an  articled  clerk  were  particularly  useful,  and  made  himself  a  perfect  master  of 
his  profession  ' — I  could  not  help  blushing,  this  looked  so  like  praising  myself — '  I 
suppose  it  is  not  the  custom,  in  the  later  years  of  his  time,  to  allow  him  any ' 

Mr.  Spenlow,  by  a  great  effort,  just  lifted  his  head  far  enough  out  of  his  cravat, 
to  shake  it,  and  answered,  anticipating  the  word  '  salary.' 

'  No.  I  will  not  say  what  consideration  I  might  give  to  that  point  myself,  Mr. 
Copperfield,  if  I  were  unfettered.     Mr.  Jorkins  is  immoveable.' 


228  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  was  quite  dismayed  by  the  idea  of  this  terrible  Jorkins.  But  I  found  out  after- 
wards that  he  was  a  mild  man  of  a  heavy  temperament,  whose  place  in  the  business 
was  to  keep  himself  in  the  background,  and  be  constantly  exhibited  by  name  as  the 
most  obdurate  and  ruthless  of  men.  If  a  clerk  wanted  his  salary  raised,  Mr.  Jorkins 
wouldn't  listen  to  such  a  proposition.  If  a  client  were  slow  to  settle  his  bill  of  costs, 
Mr.  Jorkins  was  resolved  to  have  it  paid  ;  and  however  painful  these  things  might 
be  (and  always  were)  to  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Spenlow,  Mr.  Jorkins  would  have  his  bond. 
The  heart  and  hand  of  the  good  angel  Spenlow  would  have  been  always  open,  but  for 
the  restraining  demon  Jorkins.  As  I  have  grown  older,  I  think  I  have  had  experience 
of  some  other  houses  doing  business  on  the  principle  of  Spenlow  and  Jorkins  ! 

It  was  settled  that  I  should  begin  my  month's  probation  as  soon  as  I  pleased, 
and  that  my  aunt  need  neither  remain  in  town  nor  return  at  its  expiration,  as  the 
articles  of  agreement  of  which  I  was  to  be  the  subject,  could  easily  be  sent  to  her  at 
home  for  her  signature.  When  we  had  got  so  far,  Mr.  Spenlow  offered  to  take  me  into 
Court  then  and  there,  and  show  me  Avhat  sort  of  place  it  was.  As  I  was  willing  enough 
to  know,  we  went  out  with  this  object,  leaving  my  aunt  behind  ;  who  would  trust 
herself,  she  said,  in  no  such  place,  and  who,  I  think,  regarded  all  Courts  of  Law  as  a 
sort  of  powder-mills  that  might  blow  up  at  any  time. 

Mr.  Spenlow  conducted  me  through  a  paved  courtyard  formed  of  grave  brick 
houses,  which  I  inferred,  from  the  Doctor's  names  upon  the  doors,  to  be  the  official 
abiding-places  of  the  learned  advocates  of  whom  Steerforth  had  told  me  ;  and  into  a 
large  dull  room,  not  unlike  a  chapel  to  my  thinking,  on  the  left  hand.  The  upper 
part  of  this  room  was  fenced  off  from  the  rest ;  and  there,  on  the  two  sides  of  a  raised 
platform  of  the  horseshoe  form,  sitting  on  easy  old-fashioned  dining-room  chairs, 
were  sundry  gentlemen  in  red  gowns  and  grey  wigs,  whom  I  found  to  be  the  Doctors 
aforesaid.  Blinking  over  a  little  desk  like  a  pulpit-desk,  in  the  curve  of  the  horseshoe, 
was  an  old  gentleman,  whom,  if  I  had  seen  him  in  an  aviary,  I  should  certainly  have 
taken  for  an  owl,  but  who,  I  learned,  was  the  presiding  judge.  In  the  space  within  the 
horseshoe,  lower  than  these,  that  is  to  say  on  about  the  level  of  the  floor,  were  sundry 
other  gentlemen  of  Mr.  Spenlow's  rank,  and  dressed  like  him  in  black  gowns  with 
white  fur  upon  them,  sitting  at  a  long  green  table.  Their  cravats  were  in  general 
stiff,  I  thought,  and  their  looks  haughty  ;  but  in  this  last  respect,  I  presently  conceived 
I  had  done  them  an  injustice,  for  when  two  or  three  of  them  had  to  rise  and  answer 
a  question  of  the  presiding  dignitary,  I  never  saw  anything  more  sheepish.  The 
public,  represented  by  a  boy  with  a  comforter,  and  a  shabby-genteel  man  secretly 
eating  crumbs  out  of  his  coat  pockets,  was  warming  itself  at  a  stove  in  the  centre  of 
the  Court.  The  languid  stillness  of  the  place  was  only  broken  by  the  chirping  of  this 
fire  and  by  the  voice  of  one  of  the  Doctors,  who  was  wandering  slowly  through  a  perfect 
library  of  evidence,  and  stopping  to  put  up,  from  time  to  time,  at  little  roadside  inns 
of  argument  on  the  journey.  Altogether,  I  have  never,  on  any  occasion,  made  one 
at  such  a  cosey,  dosey,  old-fashioned,  time-forgotten,  sleepy-headed  little  family  party 
in  all  my  life  ;  and  I  felt  it  would  be  quite  a  soothing  opiate  to  belong  to  it  in  any 
character — except  perhaps  as  a  suitor. 

Very  well  satisfied  with  the  dreamy  nature  of  this  retreat,  I  informed  Mr.  Spenlow 
that  I  had  seen  enough  for  that  time,  and  we  rejoined  my  aunt ;  in  company  with 
whom  I  presently  departed  from  the  Commons,  feeling  very  j'oung  when  I  went  out  of 
.Spenlow  and  Jorkins's,  on  account  of  the  clerks  poking  one  another  with  their  pens 
to  point  me  out. 


T  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION  229 

We  arrived  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  without  any  new  adventures,  except  encounter- 
ing an  unlucky  donkey  in  a  costermonger's  cart,  wiio  suggested  painful  associations  to 
my  aunt.  We  had  another  long  talk  about  my  plans,  when  we  were  safely  housed  ; 
and  as  I  knew  she  was  anxious  to  get  home,  and  between  fire,  food,  and  pickpockets, 
could  never  be  considered  at  her  ease  for  half  an  hour  in  London,  I  urged  her  not 
to  be  uncomfortable  on  my  account,  but  to  leave  me  to  take  care  of  myself. 

'  I  have  not  been  here  a  week  to-morrow,  without  considering  that  too,  my  dear,' 
she  returned.  '  There  is  a  furnished  little  set  of  chambers  to  be  let  in  the  Adelphi, 
Trot,  which  ought  to  suit  you  to  a  mai-vel.' 

With  this  brief  introduction,  she  produced  from  her  pocket  an  advertisement, 
carefully  cut  out  of  a  newspaper,  setting  forth  that  in  Buckingham  Street  in  the 
Adelphi  there  was  to  be  let  furnished,  with  a  view  of  the  river,  a  singularly  desirable 
and  compact  set  of  chambers,  forming  a  genteel  residence  for  a  young  gentleman,  a 
member  of  one  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  or  otherwise,  with  immediate  possession.  Terms 
moderate,  and  could  be  taken  for  a  month  only,  if  required. 

'  Why,  this  is  the  very  thing,  aunt !  *  said  I,  flushed  with  the  possible  dignity  of 
living  in  chambers. 

'  Then  come,'  replied  my  aunt,  immediately  resuming  the  bonnet  she  had  a 
minute  before  laid  aside.     '  We  'II  go  and  look  at  'em.' 

Away  we  went.  The  advertisement  directed  us  to  apply  to  Mrs.  Crupp  on  the 
premises,  and  we  rung  the  area  bell,  which  we  supposed  to  communicate  with  Mrs. 
Crupp.  It  was  not  until  we  had  rung  three  or  four  times  that  we  could  prevail  on 
Mrs.  Crupp  to  communicate  with  us,  but  at  last  she  appeared,  being  a  stout  lady 
with  a  flounce  of  flannel  petticoat  below  a  nankeen  gown. 

'  Let  us  see  these  chambers  of  yours,  if  you  please,  ma'am,'  said  my  aunt. 

'  For  this  gentleman  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  feehng  in  her  pocket  for  her  keys. 

'  Yes,  for  my  nephew,'  said  my  avmt. 

'  And  a  sweet  set  they  is  for  sich  !  '  said  Mrs.  Crupp. 

So  we  went  upstairs. 

They  were  on  the  top  of  the  house — a  great  point  with  my  aunt,  being  near  the 
fire-escape — and  consisted  of  a  little  half-blind  entry  where  you  could  see  hardly 
anything,  a  little  stone-blind  pantry  where  you  could  see  nothing  at  all,  a  sitting-room, 
and  a  bedroom.  The  furniture  was  rather  faded,  but  quite  good  enough  for  me  ; 
and,  sure  enough,  the  river  was  outside  the  windows. 

As  I  was  delighted  with  the  place,  my  aunt  and  Mrs.  Crupp  withdrew  into  the 
pantry  to  discuss  the  terms,  while  I  remained  on  the  sitting-room  sofa,  hardly  daring 
to  think  it  possible  that  I  could  be  destined  to  live  in  such  a  noble  residence.  After 
a  single  combat  of  some  duration  they  returned,  and  I  saw,  to  my  joy,  both  in  Mrs. 
Crupp's  countenance  and  in  my  aunt's,  that  the  deed  was  done. 

'  Is  it  the  last  occupant's  furniture  ?  '  inquired  my  aunt. 

'  Yes,  it  is,  ma'am,'  said  Mrs.  Crupp. 

'  Wliat  's  become  of  him  ?  '  asked  my  aunt. 

Mrs.  Crupp  was  taken  with  a  troublesome  cough,  in  the  midst  of  which  she  articu- 
lated with  much  difflculty.  '  He  was  took  ill  here,  ma'am,  and — ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  1 
dear  me  ! — and  he  died  !  ' 

'  Hey  !     What  did  he  die  of  ?  '  asked  my  aunt. 

'  Well,  ma'am,  he  died  of  drink,'  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  in  confidence.     '  And  smoke.' 

'  Smoke  ?     You  don't  mean  chimnevs  ?  '  said  mv  aunt. 


230  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  No,  ma'am,'  returned  Mrs.  Crupp.     '  Cigars  and  pipes.' 

'  Thai  's  not  catching.  Trot,  at  any  rate,'  remarked  my  aunt,  turning  to  me. 

'  No,  indeed,'  said  I. 

In  short,  my  aunt,  seeing  how  enraptured  I  was  with  the  premises,  took  them  for 
a  month,  with  leave  to  remain  for  twelve  months  when  that  time  was  out.  Mrs.  Crupp 
was  to  find  linen,  and  to  cook  ;  every  other  necessary  was  already  provided  ;  and 
Mrs.  Crupp  expressly  intimated  that  she  should  always  yearn  towards  me  as  a  son. 
I  was  to  take  possession  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  Mrs.  Crupp  said,  thank  Heaven 
she  had  now  found  summun  she  could  care  for  ! 

On  our  way  back,  my  aunt  informed  me  how  she  confidently  trusted  that  the 
life  I  was  now  to  lead  would  make  me  firm  and  self-reliant,  which  was  all  I  wanted. 
She  repeated  this  several  times  next  day,  in  the  intervals  of  our  arranging  for  the 
transmission  of  my  clothes  and  books  from  Mr.  Wickfield's  ;  relative  to  which,  and  to 
all  my  late  holiday,  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Agnes,  of  which  my  aunt  took  charge, 
as  she  was  to  leave  on  the  succeeding  day.  Not  to  lengthen  these  particulars,  I  need 
only  add,  that  she  made  a  handsome  provision  for  all  my  possible  wants  during  my 
month  of  trial  ;  that  Steerforth,  to  my  great  disappointment  and  hers  too,  did  not 
make  his  appearance  before  she  went  away  ;  that  I  saw  her  safely  seated  in  the  Dover 
coach,  exulting  in  the  coming  discomfiture  of  the  vagrant  donkeys,  with  Janet  at  her 
side  ;  and  that  when  the  coach  was  gone,  I  turned  my  face  to  the  Adelphi,  pondering 
on  the  old  days  when  I  used  to  roam  about  its  subterranean  arches,  and  on  the  happy 
changes  which  had  brought  me  to  the  surface. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

MY    FIRST   DISSIPATION 

IT  was  a  wonderfully  fine  thing  to  have  that  lofty  castle  to  myself,  and  to  feel, 
when  I  shut  my  outer  door,  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  when  he  had  got  into  his 
fortification,  and  pulled  his  ladder  up  after  him.  It  was  a  wonderfully  fine 
thing  to  walk  about  town  with  the  key  of  my  house  in  my  pocket,  and  to  know 
that  I  could  ask  any  fellow  to  come  home,  and  make  quite  sure  of  its  being  inconvenient 
to  nobody,  if  it  were  not  so  to  me.  It  was  a  wonderfully  fine  thing  to  let  myself  in 
and  out,  and  to  come  and  go  without  a  word  to  any  one,  and  to  ring  Mrs.  Crupp  up, 
gasping,  from  the  depths  of  the  earth,  when  I  wanted  her — and  when  she  was  disposed 
to  come.  All  this,  I  say,  was  wonderfully  fine  ;  but  I  must  say,  too,  that  there  were 
times  when  it  was  very  dreary. 

It  was  fine  in  the  morning,  particularly  in  the  fine  mornings.  It  looked  a  very 
fresh,  free  life,  by  daylight  :  still  fresher,  and  more  free,  by  sunlight.  But  as  the  day 
declined,  the  life  seemed  to  go  down  too.  I  don't  know  how  it  was  ;  it  seldom  looked 
well  by  candle-light.  I  wanted  somebody  to  talk  to,  then.  I  missed  Agnes.  I  found 
a  tremendous  blank,  in  the  place  of  that  smiling  repository  of  my  confidence.  Mrs. 
Crupp  appeared  to  be  a  long  way  off.  I  thought  about  my  predecessor,  who  had 
died  of  drink  and  smoke  ;  and  I  could  have  wished  he  had  been  so  good  as  to  live,  and 
not  bother  me  with  his  decease. 

After  two  days  and  nights,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  lived  there  for  a  year,  and  yet  I 


MY  FIRST  DISSIPATION  23i 

was  not  an  hour  older,  hut  was  quite  as  much  tormentc<J  l»y  my  own  youthfulncss 
as  ever. 

Stcorforth  not  yet  appearing,  which  induced  mc  to  apprehend  that  he  must  l;e 
ill,  I  left  the  Commons  early  on  the  third  day,  and  walked  out  to  Ilighgate.  Mrs. 
Stecrforth  was  very  glad  to  sec  me,  and  said  that  he  had  gone  away  with  one  of  his 
Oxford  friends  to  see  another  who  lived  near  St.  Albans,  but  that  she  expected  him  to 
return  to-morrow.     I  was  so  fond  of  him,  that  I  felt  quite  jealous  of  his  Oxford  friends. 

As  she  pressed  me  to  stay  to  dinner,  I  remained,  and  I  believe  we  talked  about 
nothing  but  him  all  day.  I  told  her  how  much  the  people  liked  him  at  Yarmouth, 
and  what  a  delightful  companion  he  had  been.  Miss  Dartle  was  full  f)f  hints  and 
mysterious  questions,  but  took  a  great  interest  in  all  our  proceedings  there,  and  said, 
'  Was  it  really  though  ?  '  and  so  forth,  so  often,  that  she  got  everything  out  of  me  she 
wanted  to  know.  Her  appearance  was  exactly  what  I  have  described  it,  when  I  first 
saw  her  ;  })ut  the  society  of  the  two  ladies  was  so  agreeable,  and  came  so  natural  to 
me,  that  I  felt  myself  falling  a  little  in  love  with  her.  I  could  not  help  thinking, 
several  times  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and  particularly  when  I  walked  home  at 
night,  what  delightfid  company  she  would  be  in  liuckingham  Street. 

I  was  taking  my  cofi'ee  and  roll  in  the  morning,  before  going  to  the  Commons — and 
I  may  observe  in  this  place  that  it  is  surprising  how  much  coffee  Mrs.  Crupp  used,  and 
how  weak  it  was,  considering — when  Steerforth  himself  walked  in,  to  my  unbounded  joy. 

'  My  dear  Steerforth,'  cried  I,  '  I  began  to  think  I  should  never  see  you  again  !  ' 

'  I  was  carried  off  by  force  of  arms,'  said  Steerforth,  '  the  very  next  morning  after 
I  got  home.     \Vliy,  Daisy,  what  a  rare  old  bachelor  you  are  here  !  ' 

I  showed  him  over  the  establishment,  not  omitting  the  pantry,  with  no  little 
pride,  and  he  commended  it  highly.  '  I  tell  you  what,  old  boy,'  he  added,  '  I  shall 
make  quite  a  town-house  of  this  place,  imless  you  give  me  notice  to  quit.' 

This  was  a  delightful  hearing.  I  told  him  if  he  waited  for  that,  he  would  have 
to  wait  till  doomsday. 

'  But  you  shall  have  some  breakfast  !  '  said  I,  with  my  hand  on  the  bell-rope, 
'  and  Mrs.  Crupp  shall  make  you  some  fresh  coffee,  and  I  '11  toast  you  some  bacon  in 
a  bachelor's  Dutch-oven  that  I  have  got  here.' 

'  No,  no  !  '  said  Steerforth.  '  Don't  ring  !  I  can't.  I  am  going  to  breakfast 
with  one  of  these  fellows  who  is  at  the  Piazza  Hotel,  in  Covent  Garden.' 

'  But  you  '11  come  back  to  dinner  ?  '  said  I. 

'  I  can't,  upon  my  life.  There  's  nothing  I  should  like  better,  but  I  must  remain 
with  these  two  fellows.     We  are  all  three  off  together  to-morrow  morning.' 

'  Then  bring  them  here  to  dinner,'  I  returned.     '  Do  you  think  they  would  come  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  they  would  come  fast  enough,'  said  Steerforth  ;  '  but  we  should  incon- 
venience you.     You  had  better  come  and  dine  with  us  somewhere.' 

I  would  not  by  any  means  consent  to  this,  for  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  really 
ought  to  have  a  little  house-warming,  and  that  there  never  could  be  a  better  oppor- 
tunity. I  had  a  new  pride  in  my  rooms  after  his  approval  of  them,  and  burned  with 
a  desire  to  develop  their  utmost  resources.  I  therefore  made  him  promise  positively 
in  the  names  of  his  two  friends,  and  we  appointed  six  o'clock  as  the  dinner-hour. 

When  he  was  gone,  I  rang  for  Mrs.  Crupp,  and  acquainted  her  with  my  desperate 
design.  Mrs.  Crupp  said,  in  the  first  place,  of  course  it  was  well  known  she  couldn't 
be  expected  to  wait,  but  she  knew  a  handy  young  man,  who  she  thought  could  be 
prevailed  upon  to  do  it,  and  whose  terms  would  be  five  shillings,  and  what  I  pleased. 


232  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  said,  certainly  we  would  have  him.  Next,  Mrs.  Crupp  said  it  was  clear  she  couldn't 
be  in  two  places  at  once  (which  I  felt  to  be  reasonable),  and  that  '  a  young  gal  ' 
stationed  in  the  pantry  with  a  bedroom  candle,  there  never  to  desist  from  washing 
plates,  would  be  indispensable.  I  said,  what  would  be  the  expense  of  this  young 
female,  and  Mrs.  Crupp  said  she  supposed  eighteenpence  would  neither  make  me  nor 
break  me.  I  said  I  supposed  not ;  and  that  was  settled.  Then  Mrs.  Crupp  said. 
Now  about  the  dinner. 

It  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  want  of  forethought  on  the  part  of  the  ironmonger 
who  had  made  Mrs.  Crupp' s  kitchen  fire-place,  that  it  was  capable  of  cooking  nothing 
but  chops  and  mashed  potatoes.  As  to  a  fish-kettle,  Mrs.  Crupp  said,  well  !  would  I 
only  come  and  look  at  the  range  ?  She  couldn't  say  fairer  than  that.  Would  I  come 
and  look  at  it  ?  As  I  should  not  have  been  much  the  wiser  if  I  had  looked  at  it,  I 
declined,  and  said,  '  Never  mind  fish.'  But  Mrs.  Crupp  said.  Don't  say  that ;  oysters 
was  in,  and  why  not  them  ?  So  that  was  settled.  Mrs.  Crupp  then  said  what  she  would 
recommend  would  be  this.  A  pair  of  hot  roast  fowls — from  the  pastry-cook's  ;  a  dish 
of  stewed  beef,  with  vegetables — from  the  pastry-cooks  ;  two  little  corner  things,  as  a 
raised  pie  and  a  dish  of  kidneys — from  the  pastry-cook's  ;  a  tart,  and  (if  I  liked)  a 
shape  of  jelly — from  the  pastry-cook's.  This,  Mrs.  Crupp  said,  would  leave  her  at  full 
liberty  to  concentrate  her  mind  on  the  potatoes,  and  to  serve  up  the  cheese  and  celery 
as  she  could  wish  to  see  it  done. 

I  acted  on  Mrs.  Crupp's  opinion,  and  gave  the  order  at  the  pastry-cook's  myself. 
Walking  along  the  Strand,  afterwards,  and  observing  a  hard  mottled  substance  in  the 
window  of  a  ham  and  beef  shop,  which  resembled  marble,  but  was  labelled  '  Mock 
Turtle,'  I  went  in  and  bought  a  slab  of  it,  wliich  I  have  since  seen  reason  to  believe 
would  have  sufficed  for  fifteen  people.  This  preparation,  Mrs.  Crupp,  after  some 
difficulty,  consented  to  warm  up  ;  and  it  shrunk  so  much  in  a  liquid  state,  that  we 
found  it  what  Steerforth  called  '  rather  a  tight  fit  '  for  four. 

These  preparations  happily  completed,  I  bought  a  little  dessert  in  Covent  Garden 
Market,  and  gave  a  rather  extensive  order  at  a  retail  wine-merchant's  in  that  vicinity. 
When  I  came  home  in  the  afternoon,  and  saw  the  bottles  drawn  up  in  a  square  on 
the  pantry-floor,  they  looked  so  numerous  (though  there  were  two  missing,  which  made 
Mrs.  Crupp  very  uncomfortable),  that  I  was  absolutely  frightened  at  them. 

One  of  Steerforth's  friends  was  named  Grainger,  and  the  other  Markham.  They 
were  both  very  gay  and  liveh^  fellows  ;  Grainger,  something  older  than  Steerforth  ; 
Markham,  youthful-looking,  and  I  should  say  not  more  than  twenty.  I  observed  that 
the  latter  alwaj^s  spoke  of  himself  indefinitely,  as  '  a  man,'  and  seldom  or  never  in  the 
first  person  singular. 

'  A  man  might  get  on  very  well  here,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  IMarkham — meaning 
himself. 

'  It 's  not  a  bad  situation,'  said  I,  '  and  the  rooms  are  really  commodious.' 

'  I  hope  you  have  both  brought  appetites  with  you  ?  '  said  Steerforth. 

'  Upon  my  honour,'  returned  Markham,  '  town  seems  to  sharpen  a  man's  appetite. 
A  man  is  hungry  all  day  long.     A  man  is  perpetually  eating.' 

Being  a  little  embarrassed  at  first,  and  feeling  much  too  young  to  preside,  I  made 
Steerforth  take  the  head  of  the  table  when  dinner  was  announced,  and  seated  myself 
opposite  to  him.  Everything  was  very  good  ;  we  did  not  spare  the  wine  ;  and  he 
exerted  himself  so  brilliantly  to  make  the  thing  pass  off  well,  that  there  was  no  pause 
in  our  festivity.     I  was  not  quite  such  good  company  during  dinner  as  I  could  have 


MY  1  JJtST  JJlSSrPATION  233 

\vishe<l  to  he,  for  my  chair  was  opposite  the  door,  and  my  attention  was  distracted 
by  observinf^  that  the  handy  young  man  went  out  of  the  room  very  often,  and  that  his 
shadow  always  presented  itself,  immediately  afterwards,  on  the  wall  of  the  entry, 
with  a  bottle  at  its  mouth.  'J'he  '  young  gal  '  likewise  occasioned  me  some  uneasiness  : 
not  so  nuich  by  neglecting  to  wash  the  plates,  as  by  breaking  them.  For  being  of  an 
inquisitive  disposition,  and  unable  to  confine  herself  (as  her  positive  instructions  were) 
to  the  pantry,  she  was  constantly  peering  in  at  us,  and  constantly  imagining  lierself 
detected  ;  in  which  belief,  she  several  times  retired  upon  the  plates  (with  which  she 
had  carefully  paved  the  floor),  and  did  a  great  deal  of  destruction. 

These,  however,  were  small  drawbacks,  and  easily  forgotten  when  the  cloth  was 
cleared,  and  the  dessert  put  on  the  table  ;  at  which  period  of  the  entertainment  the 
handy  young  man  was  discovered  to  be  speechless.  Giving  him  private  directions  to 
seek  the  society  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  and  to  remove  the  '  young  gal  '  to  the  basement  also, 
I  abandoned  myself  to  enjoyment. 

I  began,  by  being  singularly  cheerful  and  light-hearted  ;  all  sorts  of  half -forgotten 
things  to  talk  about,  came  rushing  into  my  mind,  and  made  me  hold  forth  in  a  most 
unwonted  manner.  I  laughed  heartily  at  my  own  jokes,  and  everybody  else  's  ;  called 
Steerforth  to  order  for  not  passing  the  wine  ;  made  several  engagements  to  go  to 
Oxford  ;  announced  that  I  meant  to  have  a  dinner-party  exactly  like  that,  once  a  week 
until  further  notice  ;  and  madly  took  so  much  snuff  out  of  Grainger's  box,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  go  into  the  pantry,  and  have  a  private  fit  of  sneezing  ten  minutes  long. 

I  went  on,  by  passing  the  wine  faster  and  faster  yet,  and  continually  starting  up 
with  a  cockscrew  to  open  more  wine,  long  before  any  was  needed.  I  proposed  Steer- 
forth's  health.  I  said  he  was  my  dearest  friend,  the  protector  of  my  boyhood,  and 
the  companion  of  my  prime.  I  said  I  was  delighted  to  propose  his  health.  I  said  I 
owed  him  more  obligations  than  I  could  ever  repay,  and  held  him  in  a  higher  admira- 
tion than  I  could  ever  express.  I  finished  by  saying,  '  I  '11  give  you  Steerforth  ! 
God  bless  him  !  Hurrah  I  '  We  gave  him  three  times  three,  and  another,  and  a 
good  one  to  finish  with.  I  broke  my  glass  in  going  round  the  table  to  shake  hands 
with  him,  and  I  said  (in  two  words)  '  Steerforth,  you'retheguidingstarofmyexistence.' 

I  went  on,  by  finding  suddenly  that  somebody  was  in  the  middle  of  a  song. 
Markham  was  the  singer,  and  he  sang,  '  When  the  heart  of  a  man  is  depressed  with 
care.'  He  said,  when  he  had  sung  it,  he  would  give  us  '  Woman  !  '  I  took  objection 
to  that,  and  I  couldn't  allow  it.  I  said  it  was  not  a  respectful  way  of  proposing  the 
toast,  and  I  would  never  permit  that  toast  to  be  drunk  in  my  house  otherwise  than  as 
'  The  Ladies  !  '  I  was  very  high  with  him,  mainly,  I  think  because  I  saw  Steerforth 
and  Grainger  laughing  at  me — or  at  him — or  at  both  of  us.  He  said  a  man  was  not  to 
be  dictated  to.  I  said  a  man  rt'ffs.  He  said  a  man  was  not  to  be  insulted,  then.  I  said 
he  was  right  there — never  under  my  roof,  where  the  Lares  were  sacred,  and  the  laws 
of  hospitality  paramount.  He  said  it  was  no  derogation  from  a  man's  dignity  to 
confess  that  I  was  a  devilish  good  fellow.     I  instantly  proposed  his  health. 

Somebody  was  smoking.  We  were  all  smoking.  /  was  smoking,  and  trying  to 
suppress  a  rising  tendency  to  shudder.  Steerforth  had  made  a  speech  about  me,  in 
the  course  of  which  I  had  been  affected  almost  to  tears.  I  returned  thanks,  and 
hoped  the  present  company  would  dine  with  me  to-morrow,  and  the  day  after — each 
day  at  five  o'clock,  that  we  might  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  conversation  and  society 
through  a  long  evening.  I  felt  called  upon  to  propose  an  individual.  I  would  give 
them  my  aunt.     Miss  Betsey  Trotwood,  the  best  of  her  sex  ! 

h2 


234  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Somebody  was  leaning  out  of  my  bedroom  window,  refreshing  his  forehead 
against  the  cool  stone  of  the  parapet,  and  feeling  the  air  upon  his  face.  It  was  myself. 
I  was  addressing  myself  as  '  Copperfield,'  and  saying,  '  Why  did  you  try  to  smoke  ? 
You  might  have  known  you  couldn't  do  it.'  Now,  somebody  was  unsteadily  con- 
templating his  features  in  the  looking-glass.  That  was  I  too.  I  was  very  pale  in  the 
looking-glass  ;  my  eyes  had  a  vacant  appearance  ;  and  my  hair — only  my  hair,  nothing 
else — looked  drunk. 

Somebody  said  to  me,  '  Let  us  go  to  the  theatre,  Copperfield  ! '  There  was  no 
bedroom  before  me,  but  again  the  jingling  table  covered  with  glasses  ;  the  lamp  ; 
Grainger  on  my  right  hand,  Markham  on  my  left,  and  Steerforth  opposite — all  sitting 
in  a  mist,  and  a  long  way  off.  The  theatre  ?  To  be  sure.  The  very  thing.  Come 
along  !  But  they  must  excuse  me  if  I  saw  everybody  out  first,  and  turned  the  lamp 
off — in  case  of  fire  ! 

Owing  to  some  confusion  in  the  dark,  the  door  was  gone.  I  was  feeling  for  it 
in  the  window-curtains,  when  Steerforth,  laughing,  took  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me 
out.  We  went  downstairs,  one  behind  another.  Near  the  bottom,  somebody  fell, 
and  rolled  down.  Somebody  else  said  it  was  Copperfield.  I  was  angry  at  that  false 
report,  until  finding  myself  on  my  back  in  the  passage,  I  began  to  think  there  might 
be  some  foundation  for  it. 

A  very  foggy  night,  with  great  rings  round  the  lamps  in  the  streets  !  There  was 
an  indistinct  talk  of  its  being  wet.  I  considered  it  frosty.  Steerforth  dusted  me 
under  a  lamp-post,  and  put  my  hat  into  shape,  which  somebody  produced  from  some- 
where in  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  for  I  hadn't  had  it  on  before.  Steerforth 
then  said,  '  You  are  all  right,  Copperfield,  are  you  not  ?  '  and  I  told  him,  '  Neverberrer.' 

A  man,  sitting  in  a  pigeon-hole  place,  looked  out  of  the  fog,  and  took  money 
from  somebody,  inquiring  if  I  was  one  of  the  gentlemen  paid  for,  and  appearing  rather 
doubtful  (as  I  remember  in  the  glimpse  I  had  of  him)  whether  to  take  the  money  for 
me  or  not.  Shortly  afterwards,  we  were  very  high  up  in  a  very  hot  theatre,  looking 
down  into  a  large  pit,  that  seemed  to  me  to  smoke  ;  the  people  with  whom  it  was 
crammed  were  so  indistinct.  There  was  a  great  stage,  too,  looking  very  clean  and 
smooth  after  the  streets  ;  and  there  were  people  upon  it,  talking  about  something  or 
other,  but  not  at  all  intelligibly.  There  was  an  abundance  of  bright  lights,  and  there 
was  music,  and  there  were  ladies  down  in  the  boxes,  and  I  don't  know  what  more. 
The  whole  building  looked  to  me,  as  if  it  were  learning  to  swim  ;  it  conducted  itself 
in  such  an  unaccountable  manner,  when  I  tried  to  steady  it. 

On  somebody's  motion,  we  resolved  to  go  downstairs  to  the  dress-boxes,  where 
the  ladies  were.  A  gentleman  lounging,  full  dressed,  on  a  sofa,  with  an  opera-glass 
in  his  hand,  passed  before  my  view,  and  also  my  own  figure  at  full  length  in  a  glass. 
Then  I  was  being  ushered  into  one  of  these  boxes,  and  found  myself  saying  something 
as  I  sat  down,  and  people  about  me  crying  '  Silence  !  '  to  somebody,  and  ladies  casting 
indignant  glances  at  me,  and — what !  yes  ! — Agnes,  sitting  on  the  seat  before  me,  in 
the  same  box,  with  a  lady  and  gentleman  beside  her,  whom  I  didn't  know.  I  see  her 
face  now,  better  than  I  did  then,  I  dare  say,  with  its  indelible  look  of  regret  and  wonder 
turned  upon  me. 

'  Agnes  !  '  I  said,  thickly,  '  Lorblessmer  !     Agnes  !  ' 

'  Hush  !  Pray  !  '  she  answered,  I  could  not  conceive  why.  '  You  disturb  the 
company.     Look  at  the  stage  !  ' 

I  tried,  on  her  injunction,  to  fix  it,  and  to  hear  something  of  what  was  going 


MY   FIKST   DISSIPATION  ta^ 

oil  there,  IjuL  (juile  iii  \uiii.  1  luol^ed  uL  her  ii^^uin  hy  and  tjy,  and  saw  her  slirink  into 
her  corner,  and  put  her  gloved  hand  to  her  forehead. 

'  Agnes  !  '  I  said.     '  I'mafraidyou'rciiorwell.' 

'  Yes,  yes.  Do  not  mind  nie,  'J"r()t\vood,'  she  loliirncd.  '  J>i.stcn  !  Are  you 
going  away  soon  V  ' 

'  Ainigoarawaysoo  V  '  I  repeated. 

'  Yes.' 

I  had  a  stupid  intention  of  replying  that  I  was  going  to  wait,  to  hand  her  down- 
stairs. I  suppose  I  expressed  it  somehow  ;  for,  after  she  had  looked  at  me  attentively 
for  a  little  wliile,  she  aj)peared  to  under^taIld,  and  replied  in  a  low  tone  - 

'  I  know  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you,  if  1  tell  you  I  am  very  earnest  in  it.  Co  away 
now,  Trotwood,  for  my  sake,  and  ask  \'our  friends  to  take  you  home.' 

She  had  so  far  improved  me,  for  the  time,  that  though  I  was  angry  with  her,  I 
felt  ashamed,  and  with  a  short  '  Goori  !  '  (whieh  I  intended  for  '  Good-night  !  ')  got  up 
and  went  away.  They  followed,  and  I  stepped  at  once  out  of  the  ))ox-door  into  my 
bedroom,  where  only  Steerforth  was  with  me,  helping  me  to  undress,  and  where  I  was 
by  turns  telling  him  that  Agnes  was  my  sister,  and  adjuring  him  to  bring  the  corkserew, 
that  I  might  open  another  bottle  of  wine. 

How  somebody,  lying  in  my  bed,  lay  saying  and  doing  all  this  over  again,  at 
cross-purposes,  in  a  feverish  dream  all  night — the  bed  a  rocking  sea  that  was  never  still  ! 
Now,  as  that  somebody  slowly  settled  down  into  myself,  did  I  begin  to  parch,  and  feel 
as  if  my  outer  covering  of  skin  were  a  hard  board  ;  my  tongue  the  bottom  of  an  empt\' 
kettle,  furred  with  long  service,  and  burning  up  over  a  slow  fire  ;  the  palms  of  my  hands, 
hot  plates  of  metal  which  no  ice  could  cool  ! 

But  the  agony  of  mind,  the  remorse,  and  shame  I  felt,  when  I  became  conscious 
next  day  !  My  horror  of  having  committed  a  thousand  offences  I  had  forgotten,  and 
which  nothing  could  ever  expiate — my  recollection  of  that  indelible  look  whieh  Agnes 
had  given  me — the  torturing  impossibility  of  communicating  with  her,  not  knowing, 
beast  that  I  was,  how  she  came  to  be  in  London,  or  where  she  stayed — my  disgust 
of  the  very  sight  of  the  room  where  the  revel  had  been  held — my  racking  head — the 
smell  of  smoke,  the  sight  of  glasses,  the  impossibility  of  going  out,  or  even  getting  up  ! 
Oh,  what  a  day  it  was  ! 

Oh,  what  an  evening,  when  I  sat  down  by  my  fire  to  a  basin  of  nmtton  broth, 
dimpled  all  over  with  fat,  and  thought  I  was  going  the  way  of  my  predecessor,  and 
should  succeed  to  his  dismal  story  as  well  as  to  his  chambers,  and  had  half  a  mind 
to  rush  express  to  Dover  and  reveal  all  !  \Miat  an  evening,  when  Mrs.  Crupp,  coming 
in  to  take  away  the  broth-basin,  produced  one  kidney  on  a  cheese-plate  as  the  entire 
remains  of  yesterday's  feast,  and  I  was  really  inclined  to  fall  upon  her  nankeen  breast, 
and  say,  in  heartfelt  penitence,  '  Oh,  Mrs.  Crupp.  Mrs.  Crupp,  never  mind  the  broken 
meats  !  I  am  very  miserable  !  ' — only  that  I  doubted,  even  at  that  pass,  if  Mrs. 
Crupp  were  quite  the  sort  of  woman  to  confide  in  ! 


CHAPTER    XXV 

GOOD    AND    BAD    ANGELS 

I  WAS  going  out  at  my  door  on  the  morning  after  that  deplorable  day  of  headache, 
sickness,  and  repentance,  with  an  odd  confusion  in  my  mind  relative  to  the  date 
of  my  dinner-party  as  if  a  body  of  Titans  had  taken  an  enormous  lever  and 
pushed  the  day  before  yesterday  some  months  back,  when  I  saw  a  ticket-porter 
coming  upstairs,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand.  He  was  taking  his  time  about  his  errand, 
then  ;  but  when  he  saw  me  on  the  top  of  the  staircase,  looking  at  him  over  the 
banisters,  he  swung  into  a  trot,  and  came  up  panting  as  if  he  had  run  himself  into  a 
state  of  exhaustion. 

'  T.  Copperfield,  Esquire,'  said  the  ticket-porter,  touching  his  hat  with  his  little 
cane. 

I  could  scarcely  lay  claim  to  the  name  :  I  was  so  disturbed  by  the  conviction 
that  the  letter  came  from  Agnes.  However,  I  told  him  I  was  T.  Copperfield,  Esquire, 
and  he  believed  it,  and  gave  me  the  letter,  which  he  said  required  an  answer.  I  shut 
him  out  on  the  landing  to  wait  for  the  answer,  and  went  into  my  chambers  again,  in 
such  a  nervous  state  that  I  was  fain  to  lay  the  letter  down  on  my  breakfast-table, 
and  familiarise  myself  with  the  outside  of  it  a  little,  before  I  could  resolve  to  break 
the  seal. 

I  found,  when  I  did  open  it,  that  it  was  a  very  kind  note,  containing  no  reference 
to  my  condition  at  the  theatre.  All  it  said  was,  '  My  dear  Trotwood.  I  am  staying 
at  the  house  of  papa's  agent,  Mr.  Waterbrook,  in  Ely  Place,  Holborn.  Will  you  come 
and  see  me  to-day,  at  any  time  you  like  to  appoint  ?    Ever  yours  affectionately,  Agnes.' 

It  took  me  such  a  long  time  to  write  an  answer  at  all  to  my  satisfaction,  that  I 
don't  know  what  the  ticket-porter  can  have  thought,  unless  he  thought  I  was  learning 
to  write.  I  must  have  written  half  a  dozen  answers  at  least.  I  began  one,  '  How 
can  I  ever  hope,  my  dear  Agnes,  to  efface  from  your  remembrance  the  disgusting 
impression  ' — there  I  didn't  like  it,  and  then  I  tore  it  up.  I  began  another,  '  Shake- 
speare has  observed,  my  dear  Agnes,  how  strange  it  is  that  a  man  should  put  an  enemy 
into  his  mouth  ' — that  reminded  me  of  Markham,  and  it  got  no  farther.  I  even  tried 
poetry.  I  began  one  note,  in  a  six-syllable  line,  '  Oh,  do  not  remember  ' — but  that 
associated  itself  with  the  fifth  of  November,  and  became  an  absurdity.  After  many 
attempts,  I  wrote,  '  My  dear  Agnes.  Your  letter  is  like  you,  and  what  could  I  say 
of  it  that  would  be  higher  praise  than  that  ?  I  will  come  at  four  o'clock.  Affectionately 
and  sorrowfully,  T.  C  With  this  missive  (which  I  was  in  twenty  minds  at  once  about 
recalling,  as  soon  as  it  was  out  of  my  hands),  the  ticket-porter  at  last  departed. 

If  the  day  were  half  as  tremendous  to  any  other  professional  gentleman  in  Doctors' 
Commons  as  it  was  to  me,  I  sincerely  believe  he  made  some  expiation  for  his  share  in 
that  rotten  old  ecclesiastical  cheese.  Although  I  left  the  office  at  half-past  three, 
and  was  prowling  about  the  place  of  appointment  within  a  few  minutes  afterwards, 
the  appointed  time  was  exceeded  by  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour,  according  to  the  clock 
of  St.  Andrew's,  Holborn,  before  I  could  muster  up  sufficient  desperation  to  pull  the 
[)rivate  bell-handle  let  into  the  left-hand  door-post  of  Mr.  Waterbrook's  house. 


GOOD  AND  BAD  ANGELS  237 

The  professional  business  of  Mr.  \Vaterl)rook's  estal)lishment  was  done  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  the  genteel  business  {o[  whieh  there  was  a  good  deal)  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  building.  I  was  shown  into  a  prettj  but  lathcr  close  drawing-room,  and 
there  sat  Agnes,  netting  a  j)urse. 

She  looked  so  quiet  and  good,  and  reminded  me  so  strongly  of  my  airy  fresh  school- 
days at  Canterbury,  and  the  sodden,  smoky,  stupid  wretch  I  had  been  the  other  night, 
that,  nobody  being  by,  I  yielded  to  my  self-reproach  and  shame,  and — in  short,  made 
a  fool  of  myself.  I  cannot  deny  that  I  shed  tears.  To  this  hour  I  am  undecided 
whether  it  was  upon  the  whole  the  wisest  thing  I  could  have  done,  or  the  most 
ridiculous. 

'  If  it  had  been  any  one  but  you,  Agnes,'  said  I,  turning  away  my  head,  '  I  should 
not  have  minded  it  half  so  much.  But  that  it  should  have  been  you  who  saw  me  ! 
I  almost  wish  I  had  been  dead,  first.' 

She  put  her  hand — its  touch  was  like  no  other  hand — upon  my  arm  for  a  moment ; 
and  I  felt  so  befriended  and  comforted,  that  I  could  not  help  moving  it  to  my  lips,  and 
gratefully  kissing  it. 

'  Sit  down,'  said  Agnes,  cheerfully.  '  Don't  be  unhappy,  Trotwood.  If  you 
cannot  confidently  trust  me,  whom  will  you  trust  ?  ' 

'  Ah,  Agnes  !  '  I  returned.     '  You  are  my  good  Angel  !  ' 

She  smiled  rather  sadly,  I  thought,  and  shook  her  head. 

'  Yes,  Agnes,  my  good  Angel  !     Always  my  good  Angel  !  ' 

'  If  I  were,  indeed,  Trotwood,'  she  returned,  '  there  is  one  thing  that  I  should  set 
my  heart  on  verj-  much.' 

I  looked  at  her  inquiringly  ;    but  already  with  a  foreknowledge  of  her  meaning. 

'  On  warning  you,'  said  Agnes,  with  a  steady  glance,  '  against  \our  bad  Angel.' 

'  My  dear  Agnes,'  I  began,  '  if  you  mean  Steerforth ' 

'  I  do,  Trotwood,'  she  returned. 

'  Then,  Agnes,  you  wrong  him  very  much.  He  my  bad  Angel,  or  any  one's  ! 
He,  anything  but  a  guide,  a  support,  and  a  friend  to  me  !  My  dear  Agnes  !  Now, 
is  it  not  unjust,  and  unlike  you,  to  judge  him  from  what  you  saw  of  me  the  other  night  ?  ' 

'  I  do  not  judge  him  from  what  I  saw  of  you  the  other  night,'  she  quietly  replied. 

'  From  what,  then  ?  ' 

'  From  many  things — trifles  in  themselves,  but  they  do  not  seem  to  me  to  be  so, 
when  they  are  put  together.  I  judge  him,  partly  from  your  account  of  him,  Trotwood, 
and  your  character,  and  the  influence  he  has  over  you.' 

There  was  always  something  in  her  modest  voice  that  seemed  to  touch  a  chord 
within  me,  answering  to  that  sound  alone.  It  was  always  earnest ;  but  when  it 
was  very  earnest,  as  it  was  now,  there  was  a  thrill  in  it  that  quite  subdued  me.  I 
sat  looking  at  her  as  she  cast  her  eyes  down  on  her  work  ;  I  sat  seeming  still  to 
listen  to  her  ;  and  Steerforth,  in  spite  of  all  my  attachment  to  him,  darkened  in 
that  tone. 

'  It  is  very  bold  in  me,'  said  Agnes,  looking  up  again,  '  who  have  lived  in  such  seclu- 
sion, and  can  know  so  little  of  the  world,  to  give  you  my  advice  so  confidently,  or  even 
to  have  this  strong  opinion.  But  I  know  in  what  it  is  engendered,  Trotwood, — in 
how  true  a  remembrance  of  our  having  grown  up  together,  and  in  how  true  an  interest 
in  all  relating  to  you.  It  is  that  which  makes  me  bold.  I  am  certain  that  what  I  say 
is  right.  I  am  quite  sure  it  is.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  some  one  else  speaking  to  you, 
and  not  I,  when  I  caution  vou  that  vou  have  made  a  dangerous  friend.' 


238  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Again  I  looked  at  her,  again  I  listened  to  her  after  she  was  silent,  and  again  his 
image,  though  it  was  still  fixed  in  my  heart,  darkened. 

'  I  am  not  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect,'  said  Agnes,  resuming  her  usual  tone, 
after  a  little  while,  '  that  you  will,  or  that  you  can,  at  once,  change  any  sentiment  that 
has  become  a  conviction  to  you  ;  least  of  all  a  sentiment  that  is  rooted  in  your  trusting 
disposition.  You  ought  not  hastily  to  do  that.  I  only  ask  you,  Trotwood,  if  you  ever 
think  of  me — I  mean,'  with  a  quiet  smile,  for  I  was  going  to  interrupt  her,  and  she  knew 
why,  '  as  often  as  you  think  of  me — to  think  of  what  I  have  said.  Do  you  forgive  me 
for  all  this  ?  ' 

'  I  will  forgive  j'ou,  Agnes,'  I  replied,  '  when  you  come  to  do  Steerforth  justice, 
and  to  like  him  as  well  as  I  do.' 

'  Not  until  then  ?  '  said  Agnes. 

I  saw  a  passing  shadow  on  her  face  when  I  made  this  mention  of  him,  but  she 
returned  my  smile,  and  we  were  again  as  unreserved  in  our  mutual  confidence  as  of  old, 

'  And  when,  Agnes,'  said  I,  '  will  you  forgive  me  the  other  night  ?  ' 

'  'When  I  recall  it,'  said  Agnes. 

She  would  have  dismissed  the  subject  so,  but  I  was  too  full  of  it  to  allow  that,  and 
insisted  on  telling  her  how  it  happened  that  I  had  disgraced  myself,  and  what  a  chain  of 
accidental  circumstances  had  had  the  theatre  for  its  final  link.  It  was  a  great  relief 
to  me  to  do  this,  and  to  enlarge  on  the  obligation  that  I  owed  to  Steerforth  for  his  care 
of  me  when  I  was  unable  to  take  care  of  myself. 

'  You  must  not  forget,'  said  Agnes,  calmly  changing  the  conversation  as  soon  as  I 
had  concluded,  '  that  you  are  always  to  tell  me,  not  only  when  yoii  fall  into  trouble, 
but  when  you  fall  in  love.     Who  has  succeeded  to  Miss  Larkins,  Trotwood  ?  ' 

'  No  one,  Agnes.' 

'  Some  one,  Trotwood,'  said  Agnes,  laughing,  and  holding  up  her  finger. 

'  No,  Agnes,  upon  my  word  !  There  is  a  lady,  certainly,  at  Mrs.  Steerforth's  house, 
who  is  very  clever,  and  whom  I  like  to  talk  to — Miss  Dartle — but  I  don't  adore  her.' 

Agnes  laughed  again  at  her  own  penetration,  and  told  me  that  if  I  were  faithful 
to  her  in  my  confidence  she  thought  she  should  keep  a  little  register  of  my  violent 
attachments,  with  the  date,  duration,  and  termination  of  each,  like  the  table  of  the 
reigns  of  the  kings  and  queens,  in  the  History  of  England.  Then  she  asked  me  if  I 
had  seen  Uriah. 

'  Uriah  Heep  ?  '  said  I.     '  No.     Is  he  in  London  ?  ' 

'  He  comes  to  the  office  downstairs,  every  day,'  returned  Agnes.  '  He  was  in 
London  a  week  before  me.     I  am  afraid  on  disagreeable  business,  Trotwood.' 

'  On  some  business  that  makes  you  uneasy,  Agnes,  I  see,'  said  I.  '  What  can 
that  be  ?  ' 

Agnes  laid  aside  her  work,  and  replied,  folding  her  hands  upon  one  another,  and 
looking  pensively  at  me  out  of  those  beautiful  soft  eyes  of  hers — 

'  I  believe  he  is  going  to  enter  into  partnership  with  papa.' 

'  What  ?  Uriah  ?  That  mean,  fawning  fellow,  worm  himself  into  such  pro- 
motion !  '  I  cried,  iiidignantly.  '  Have  you  made  no  remonstrance  about  it,  Agnes  ? 
Consider  what  a  connection  it  is  likely  to  be.  You  must  speak  out.  You  must  not 
allow  your  father  to  take  such  a  mad  step.  You  must  prevent  it,  Agnes,  while  there  's 
time.' 

Still  looking  at  me,  Agnes  shook  her  head  while  I  was  speaking,  with  a  faint 
smile  at  my  warmth  ;  and  then  replied — 


GOOD  AND  BAD  ANGELS  289 

'  You  renieml)er  our  last  conversation  about  papa  ?  It  was  not  lon^,'  after  lliat 
^not  more  than  two  or  three  days — when  he  f^ave  me  the  first  intimation  of  what  I 
tell  you.  It  was  sad  to  see  him  stru^KliriK  between  his  desire  to  represent  it  to  me 
as  a  matter  of  choice  on  his  part,  and  his  inability  to  coricral  tliat  it  was  forced  upon 
him.     I  felt  very  sorry.' 

'  Forced  upon  him,  Agnes  !     Who  forces  it  upon  him  '!  ' 

'  Uriah,'  she  replied,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  '  has  made  himself  indispensable 
to  papa.  lie  is  subtle  and  watchful.  He  has  mastered  papa's  weaknesses,  fostercfl 
them,  and  taken  advantage  of  them,  until — to  say  all  that  I  mean  in  a  word,  Trotwood 
— luitil  papa  is  afraid  of  him.' 

There  was  luore  that  she  might  have  said  ;  more  that  she  knew,  or  that  she 
suspected  ;  I  clearly  saw.  I  could  not  give  her  pain  by  asking  what  it  was,  for  I 
knew  that  she  withheld  it  from  me  to  spare  her  father.  It  had  long  been  going  on  to 
this,  I  was  sensible  :  yes,  I  could  not  but  feel,  on  the  least  reflection,  that  it  had  been 
going  on  to  this  for  a  long  time.     I  remained  silent. 

'  His  ascendancy  over  papa,'  said  Agnes,  '  is  very  great.  He  professes  humility 
and  gratitude — with  truth,  perhaps  :  I  hope  so — hut  his  position  is  really  one  of 
power,  and  I  fear  he  makes  a  hard  use  of  his  power.' 

I  said  he  was  a  hound,  which,  at  the  moment,  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  me. 

'  At  the  time  I  speak  of,  as  the  time  when  papa  spoke  to  me,'  pursued  Agnes, 
'  he  had  told  papa  that  he  was  going  away  ;  that  he  was  very  sorry  and  unwilling  to 
leave,  but  that  he  had  better  prospects.  Papa  was  very  much  depressed  then,  and 
more  bowed  down  by  care  than  ever  you  or  I  have  seen  him  ;  but  he  seemed  relieved 
by  this  expedient  of  the  partnership,  though  at  the  same  time  he  seemed  hurt  by  it 
and  ashamed  of  it.' 

'  And  how  did  you  receive  it,  Agnes  ?  ' 

'  I  did,  Trotwood,'  she  replied,  '  what  I  hope  was  right.  Feeling  sure  that  it  was 
necessary  for  papa's  peace  that  the  sacrifice  should  be  made,  I  entreated  him  to  make 
it.  I  said  it  would  lighten  the  load  of  his  life — I  hope  it  will  ! — and  that  it  would  give 
me  increased  opportunities  of  being  his  companion.  Oh,  Trotwood  !  '  cried  Agnes, 
])utting  her  hands  before  her  face,  as  her  tears  started  on  it,  '  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  had 
been  papa's  enemy,  instead  of  his  loving  child.  For  I  know  how  he  has  altered,  in 
his  devotion  to  me.  I  know  how  he  has  narrowed  the  circle  of  his  sympathies  and 
duties,  in  the  concentration  of  his  whole  mind  upon  me.  I  know  what  a  multitude 
of  things  he  has  shut  out  for  my  sake,  and  how  his  anxious  thoughts  of  me  have 
shadowed  his  life,  and  weakened  his  strength  and  energy,  by  turning  them  always 
upon  one  idea.  If  I  could  ever  set  this  right  !  If  I  could  ever  work  out  his  restoration, 
as  I  have  so  innocently  been  the  cause  of  his  decline  !  ' 

I  had  never  before  seen  Agnes  cry.  I  had  seen  tears  in  her  eyes  when  I  had 
brought  new  honours  home  from  school,  and  I  had  seen  them  there  when  we  last  spoke 
about  her  father,  and  I  had  seen  her  turn  her  gentle  head  aside  when  we  took  leave  of 
one  another  ;  but  I  had  never  seen  her  grieve  like  this.  It  made  me  so  sorry  that  I 
could  only  say,  in  a  foolish,  helpless  manner,  '  Pray,  Agnes,  don't  !  Don't,  my  dear 
sister  !  ' 

But  Agnes  was  too  superior  to  me  in  character  and  purpose,  as  I  know  well  now, 
whatever  I  might  know  or  not  know  then,  to  be  long  in  need  of  my  entreaties.  The 
beautiful,  calm  manner,  which  makes  her  so  different  in  my  remembrance  from  every- 
body else,  came  back  again,  as  if  a  cloud  had  passed  from  a  serene  sky. 


240  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  We  are  not  likely  to  remain  alone  much  longer,'  said  Agnes  ;  '  and  while  I  have 
an  opportunity,  let  me  earnestly  entreat  you,  Trotwood,  to  be  friendly  to  Uriah.  Don't 
repel  him.  Don't  resent  (as  I  think  you  have  a  general  disposition  to  do)  what  may  be 
uncongenial  to  you  in  him.  He  may  not  deserve  it,  for  we  know  no  certain  ill  of  him. 
In  any  case,  think  first  of  papa  and  me  !  ' 

Agnes  had  no  time  to  say  more,  for  the  room-door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Waterbrook, 
who  was  a  large  lady — or  who  wore  a  large  dress  :  I  don't  exactly  know  which,  for  I 
don't  know  which  was  dress  and  which  was  lady — came  sailing  in.  I  had  a  dim 
recollection  of  having  seen  her  at  the  theatre,  as  if  I  had  seen  her  in  a  pale  magic 
lantern  ;  but  she  appeared  to  remember  me  perfectly,  and  still  to  suspect  me  of  being 
in  a  state  of  intoxication. 

Finding  by  degrees,  however,  that  I  was  sober,  and  (I  hope)  that  I  was  a  modest 
young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Water]:)rook  softened  towards  me  considerably,  and  inquired, 
firstly,  if  I  went  much  into  the  parks,  and  secondly,  if  I  went  much  into  society.  On 
my  replying  to  both  these  questions  in  the  negative,  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  fell  again 
in  her  good  opinion  ;  but  she  concealed  the  fact  gracefully,  and  invited  me  to  dinner 
next  day.  I  accepted  the  invitation,  and  took  my  leave,  making  a  call  on  Uriah 
in  the  office  as  I  went  out,  and  leaving  a  card  for  him  in  his  absence. 

When  I  went  to  dinner  next  day,  and,  on  the  street-door  being  opened,  plunged 
into  a  vapour-bath  of  haunch  of  mutton,  I  divined  that  I  was  not  the  only  guest,  for 
I  immediately  identified  the  ticket-porter  in  disguise,  assisting  the  family  servant, 
and  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  carry  up  my  name.  He  looked,  to  the  best 
of  his  ability,  when  he  asked  me  for  it  confidentially,  as  if  he  had  never  seen  me  before  ; 
but  well  did  I  know  him,  and  well  did  he  know  me.  Conscience  made  cowards  of 
us  both. 

I  found  Mr.  Waterbrook  to  be  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  with  a  short  throat,  and 
a  good  deal  of  shirt  collar,  who  only  wanted  a  black  nose  to  be  the  portrait  of  a  pug-dog. 
He  told  me  he  was  happy  to  have  the  honour  of  making  my  acquaintance  ;  and  when 
I  had  paid  my  homage  to  Mrs.  Waterbrook,  presented  me,  with  much  ceremony,  to 
a  very  awful  lady  in  a  black  velvet  dress,  and  a  great  black  velvet  hat,  whom  I  remember 
as  looking  like  a  near  relation  of  Hamlet's — say  his  aunt. 

Mrs.  Henry  Spiker  was  this  lady's  name;  and  her  husband  was  there  too:  so 
cold  a  man,  that  his  head,  instead  of  being  grey,  seemed  to  be  sprinkled  with  hoar- 
frost. Immense  deference  was  shown  to  the  Henry  Spikers,  male  and  female  ;  which 
Agnes  told  me  was  on  account  of  Mr.  Henry  Spiker  being  solicitor  to  something  or  to 
somebody,  I  forget  what  or  which,  remotely  connected  with  the  Treasury. 

I  found  Uriah  Heep  among  the  company,  in  a  suit  of  black,  and  in  deep  humility. 
He  told  me,  when  I  shook  hands  with  him,  that  he  was  proud  to  be  noticed  by  me,  and 
that  he  really  felt  obliged  to  me  for  my  condescension.  I  could  have  wished  he  had 
been  less  obliged  to  me,  for  he  hovered  about  me  in  his  gratitude  all  the  rest  of  the 
evening  ;  and  whenever  I  said  a  word  to  Agnes,  was  sure,  with  his  shadowless  eyes 
and  cadaverous  face,  to  be  looking  gauntly  down  upon  us  from  behind. 

There  were  other  guests — all  iced  for  the  occasion,  as  it  struck  me,  like  the  wine. 
But,  there  was  one  who  attracted  my  attention  before  he  came  in,  on  account  of  my 
hearing  him  announced  as  Mr.  Traddles  !  My  mind  flew  back  to  Salem  House  ;  and 
could  it  be  Tommy,  I  thought,  who  used  to  draw  the  skeletons  ? 

I  looked  for  Mr.  Traddles  with  unusual  interest.  He  was  a  sober,  steady-looking 
young  man  of  retiring  manners,  with  a  comic  head  of  hair,  and  eyes  that  were  rather 


(;0()D  ANJ>  BAD  ANGJ:LS  241 

wide  open  ;  and  he  got  into  mi  obscure  corner  so  soon,  that  I  had  sonic  <lifliciilty 
in  maiving  him  out.  At  length  I  had  a  good  view  of  him,  and  either  my  vision  deceived 
me,  or  it  was  the  old  unfortunate  Tonmiy. 

I  made  my  way  to  Mr.  VVaterltrook,  and  said,  that  I  i)elieved  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  an  old  schoolfellow  there. 

'  Indeed  !  '  said  Mr.  Waterbrook,  surprised.  '  Y^ou  are  too  young  to  have  been  at 
school  with  Mr.  Henry  Spiker  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  mean  him  !  '  I  returned.     '  I  mean  the  gentleman  named  Traddles.' 

'  Oh  !  Aye,  aye  !  Indeed  !  '  said  my  host,  with  much  diminished  interest. 
'  Possibly.' 

'  If  it 's  really  the  same  person,'  said  I,  glancing  towards  him,  '  it  was  at  a  place 
called  Salem  House  where  we  were  together,  and  he  was  an  excellent  fellow.' 

'  Oh  yes.  Traddles  is  a  good  fellow,'  returned  my  host,  nodding  his  head  with  an 
air  of  toleration.     '  Traddles  is  quite  a  good  fellow.' 

'  It 's  a  curious  coincidence,'  said  I. 

'  It  is  really,'  returned  my  host,  '  quite  a  coincidence,  that  Traddles  should  be 
here  at  all  :  as  Traddles  was  only  invited  this  morning,  when  the  place  at  table,  intended 
to  be  occupied  by  Mrs.  Henry  Spiker's  brother,  became  vacant,  in  consequence  ot 
his  indisposition.  A  very  gentlemanly  man,  Mrs.  Henry  Spiker's  brother,  Mr. 
Copperfield.' 

I  murmured  an  assent,  which  was  full  of  feeling,  considering  that  I  knew  nothing 
at  all  about  him  ;   and  I  inquired  what  Mr.  Traddles  was  by  profession. 

'  Traddles,'  returned  Mr.  Waterbrook,  '  is  a  young  man  reading  for  the  bar. 
Yes.     He  is  quite  a  good  fellow — nobody's  enemy  but  his  own.' 

'  Is  he  his  own  enemy  ?  '  said  I,  sorry  to  hear  this. 

'  Well,'  returned  Mr.  Waterbrook,  pursing  up  his  mouth,  and  playing  with  his 
watch-chain,  in  a  comfortable,  prosperous  sort  of  way.  '  I  should  say  he  was  one  of 
those  men  who  stand  in  their  own  light.  Yes,  I  should  say  he  would  never,  for  example, 
be  worth  five  hundred  pound.  Traddles  was  recommended  to  me,  by  a  professional 
friend.  Oh  yes.  Yes.  He  has  a  kind  of  talent,  for  drawing  briefs,  and  stating  a 
case  in  ■svriting,  plainly.  I  am  able  to  throw  something  in  Traddles's  way,  in  the  course 
of  the  year  ;   something — for  him — considerable.     Oh  yes.     Yes.' 

I  was  much  impressed  by  the  extremely  comfortable  and  satisfied  manner  in  which 
Mr.  Waterbrook  delivered  himself  of  this  little  word  '  Yes,'  every  now  and  then.  There 
was  wonderful  expression  in  it.  It  completely  conveyed  the  idea  of  a  man  who  had 
been  born,  not  to  say  with  a  silver  spoon,  l)ut  with  a  scaling  ladder,  and  had  gone  on 
mounting  all  the  heights  of  life  one  after  another,  until  now  he  looked,  from  the  top 
of  the  fortifications,  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher  and  a  patron,  on  the  people  down 
in  the  trenches. 

My  reflections  on  this  theme  were  still  in  progress  when  dinner  was  announced. 
Mr.  Waterbrook  went  down  with  Hamlet's  aunt.  Mr.  Henry  Spiker  took  Mrs. 
Waterbrook.  Agnes,  whom  I  should  have  liked  to  take  myself,  was  given  to  a  simper- 
ing fellow  with  weak  legs.  Uriah,  Traddles,  and  I,  as  the  junior  part  of  the  company, 
went  down  last,  how  we  could.  I  was  not  so  vexed  at  losing  Agnes  as  I  might  have 
been,  since  it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  making  myself  known  to  Traddles  on  the  stairs, 
who  greeted  me  with  great  fervour  :  while  Uriah  writhed  with  such  unobtrusive 
satisfaction  and  self-abasement,  that  I  could  gladly  have  pitched  him  over  the  banisters. 
Traddles  and  I  were  separated  at  table,  being  billeted  in  two  remote  corners  : 


242  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

he  in  the  glare  of  a  red  velvet  lady  :  I,  in  the  gloom  of  Hamlet's  aunt.  The  dinner 
was  very  long,  and  the  conversation  was  about  the  Aristocracy — ^and  Blood.  Mrs. 
Waterbrook  repeatedly  told  us,  that  if  she  had  a  weakness,  it  was  Blood. 

It  occurred  to  me  several  times  that  we  should  have  got  on  better,  if  Ave  had 
not  been  quite  so  genteel.  We  were  so  exceedingly  genteel,  that  our  scope  was  very 
limited.  A  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gulpidge  were  of  the  party,  who  had  something  to  do  at 
second-hand  (at  least,  Mr.  Gulpidge  had),  with  the  law  business  of  the  Bank  ;  and  what 
■with  the  Bank,  and  what  with  the  Treasury,  we  were  as  exclusive  as  the  Court  Circular. 
To  mend  the  matter,  Hamlet's  aunt  had  the  family  failing  of  indulging  in  soliloquy, 
and  held  forth  in  a  desultory  manner,  by  herself,  on  every  topic  that  was  introduced. 
These  were  few  enough,  to  be  sure  ;  but  as  we  always  fell  back  upon  Blood,  she  had 
as  wide  a  field  for  abstract  speculation  as  her  nephew  himself. 

We  might  have  been  a  party  of  ogres,  the  conversation  assumed  such  a  sanguine 
complexion. 

'  I  confess  I  am  of  Mrs.  Waterbrook's  opinion,'  said  Mr.  Waterbrook,  with  his 
wine-glass  at  his  eye.  '  Other  things  are  all  verv  well  in  their  wav,  but  give  me 
Blood  !  ' 

'  Oh  !  There  is  nothing,'  observed  Hamlet's  aunt,  '  so  satisfactory  to  one  !  There 
is  nothing  that  is  so  much  one's  beau-ideal  of — of  all  that  sort  of  thing,  speaking 
generally.  There  are  some  low  minds  (not  many,  I  am  happy  to  believe,  but  there  are 
some)  that  would  prefer  to  do  what  I  should  call  bow  down  before  idols.  Positively 
idols  !  Before  services,  intellect,  and  so  on.  But  these  are  intangible  points.  Blood 
is  not  so.  We  see  Blood  in  a  nose,  and  we  know  it.  We  meet  with  it  in  a  chin,  and  we 
say,  "  There  it  is  !  That 's  Blood  !  "  It  is  an  actual  matter  of  fact.  We  point  it 
out.     It  admits  of  no  doubt.' 

The  simpering  fellow  with  the  weak  legs,  who  had  taken  Agnes  down,  stated  the 
question  more  decisively  yet,  I  thought. 

'  Oh,  you  know,  deuce  take  it,'  said  this  gentleman,  looking  round  the  board  with 
an  imbecile  smile,  '  we  can't  forego  Blood,  you  know.  We  must  have  Blood,  you  know. 
Some  young  fellows,  3-ou  know,  may  be  a  little  behind  their  station,  perhaps,  in  point 
of  education  and  behaviour,  and  may  go  a  little  wrong,  you  know,  and  get  themselves 
and  other  people  into  a  variety  of  fixes — and  all  that — but  deuce  take  it,  it 's  delightful 
to  reflect  that  they  've  got  Blood  in  'em  !  Myself,  I  'd  rather  at  any  time  be  knocked 
down  by  a  man  who  had  got  Blood  in  him,  than  I  'd  be  picked  up  by  a  man  who  hadn't ! ' 

This  sentiment,  as  compressing  the  general  question  into  a  nutshell,  gave  the 
utmost  satisfaction,  and  brought  the  gentleman  into  great  notice  imtil  the  ladies 
retired.  After  that,  I  observed  that  Mr.  Gulpidge  and  Mr.  Henry  Spiker,  who  had 
hitherto  been  very  distant,  entered  into  a  defensive  alliance  against  us,  the  common 
enemy,  and  exchanged  a  mysterious  dialogue  across  the  table  for  our  defeat  and 
overthrow. 

'  That  affair  of  the  first  bond  for  four  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  has  not 
taken  the  course  that  was  expected,  Gulpidge,'  said  Mr.  Henry  Spiker. 

'  Do  you  mean  the  D.  of  A.'s  ?  '  said  Mr.  Spiker. 

'  The  C.  of  B.'s  ?  '  said  Mr.  Gulpidge. 

Mr.  Spiker  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  looked  much  concerned. 

'  When  the  question  was  referred  to  Lord — I  needn't  name  him,'  said  Mr.  Gulpidge, 
checking  himself — 

'  I  understand,'  said  Mr.  Spiker,  '  N.' 


GOOD  AND  BAD  AiVC^ELS  24y 

Mr.  Culpidf^e  darkly  nodded— '  wus  referred  to  him,  his  answer  was.  "  Money, 
or  no  release."  ' 

'  Lord  bless  my  soul  !  '  eried  iSIr.  .Spiker. 

'  Money  or  no  release,'  repeated  Mr.  (;iil[)id<.'e,  firmly.  '  The  next  in  reversion — 
you  understand  me  ?  ' 

'  K.,'  said  Mr.  Spiker,  with  an  ominous  look. 

'  -K.  tlien  positively  refused  to  sipn.  He  was  attended  at  Newmarket  for  that 
purpose,  and  he  point-blank  refused  to  do  it.' 

Mr.  Spiker  was  so  interested,  that  he  became  quite  stony. 

'  So  the  matter  rests  at  this  hour,'  said  .Mr.  (iulpidfje,  throwinj;  himself  back  in 
his  chair.  '  Our  friend  Waterbrook  will  excuse  me  if  1  forliear  to  explain  myself 
generally,  on  account  of  the  magnitude  of  the  interests  involved.' 

Mr.  Waterbrook  was  only  too  happy,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  to  have  such  interests, 
and  such  names,  even  hinted  at,  across  his  table.  He  assumed  an  expression  of  gloomy 
intelligence  (though  I  am  persuaded  he  knew  no  more  about  the  discussion  than  I  did), 
and  highly  approved  of  the  discretion  that  had  been  observed.  Mr.  Spiker,  after  the 
receipt  of  such  a  confidence,  naturally  desired  to  favour  his  friend  with  a  confidence 
of  his  own  ;  therefore  the  foregoing  dialogue  was  succeeded  by  another,  in  which  it 
was  Mr.  Gulpidge's  turn  to  be  surprised,  and  that  by  another  in  which  the  surprise 
came  roimd  to  Mr.  Spiker's  turn  again,  and  so  on,  turn  and  turn  about.  All  this  time 
we,  the  outsiders,  remained  oppressed  by  the  tremendous  interests  involved  in  the 
conversation  ;  and  our  host  regarded  us  with  pride,  as  the  victims  of  a  salutary  awe 
and  astonishment. 

I  was  very  glad  indeed  to  get  upstairs  to  Agnes,  and  to  talk  with  her  in  a  corner, 
and  to  introduce  Traddles  to  her,  who  was  shy,  but  agreeable,  and  the  same  good- 
natured  creature  still.  As  he  was  obliged  to  leave  early,  on  accoimt  of  going  away 
next  morning  for  a  month,  I  had  not  nearly  so  much  conversation  with  him  as  I  could 
have  wished  ;  but  we  exchanged  addresses,  and  promised  ourselves  the  pleasure  of 
another  meeting  when  he  should  come  back  to  town.  He  was  greatly  interested  to 
hear  that  I  knew  Steerforth,  and  spoke  of  him  with  such  warmth  that  I  made  him 
tell  Agnes  what  he  thought  of  him.  But  Agnes  only  looked  at  me  the  while,  and 
very  slightly  shook  her  head  when  only  I  obser%'ed  her. 

As  she  was  not  among  people  with  whom  I  believed  she  could  be  very  much 
at  home,  I  was  almost  glad  to  hear  that  she  was  going  away  within  a  few  days,  though 
I  was  sorry  at  the  prospect  of  parting  from  her  again  so  soon.  This  caused  me  to 
remain  imtil  all  the  company  were  gone.  Converisng  with  her,  and  hearing  her  sing, 
was  such  a  delightful  reminder  to  me  of  my  happy  life  in  the  grave  old  house  she 
had  made  so  beautifid,  that  I  could  have  remained  there  half  the  night  ;  but,  having 
no  excuse  for  staying  any  longer,  when  the  lights  of  Mr.  Wtarebrook's  society  were 
all  snuffed  out,  I  took  my  leave  very  much  against  my  inclination.  I  felt  then,  more 
than  ever,  that  she  was  my  better  Angel ;  and  if  I  thought  of  her  sweet  face  and  placid 
smile,  as  though  they  had  shone  on  me  from  some  removed  being,  like  an  Angel,  I 
hope  I  thought  no  harm. 

I  have  said  that  the  company  were  all  gone  ;  but  I  ought  to  have  excepted  Uriah, 
whom  I  don't  include  in  that  denomination,  and  who  had  never  ceased  to  hover  near 
us.  He  was  close  behind  me  when  I  went  downstairs.  He  was  close  beside  me,  when 
I  walked  away  from  the  house,  slowly  fitting  his  long  skeleton  fingers  into  the  still 
longer  fingers  of  a  great  Guy  Fawkes  pair  of  gloves. 


244  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

It  was  in  no  disposition  for  Uriah's  company,  but  in  remembrance  of  the  entreaty 
Agnes  had  made  to  me,  that  I  asked  him  if  he  would  come  home  to  my  rooms  and 
have  some  coffee. 

'  Oh,  really.  Master  Copperfield,'  he  rejoined, — '  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mister  Copper- 
field,  but  the  other  comes  so  natural, — I  don't  like  that  you  should  put  a  constraint 
upon  jourself  to  ask  a  numble  person  like  me  to  your  ouse.' 

'  There  is  no  constraint  in  the  case,'  said  I.     '  Will  you  come  ?  ' 

'  I  should  like  to,  very  much,'  replied  Uriah,  with  a  writhe 

'  Well,  then,  come  along  !  '  said  I. 

I  could  not  help  being  rather  short  with  him,  but  he  appeared  not  to  mind  it. 
We  went  the  nearest  way,  without  conversing  much  upon  the  road  ;  and  he  was  so 
humble  in  respect  of  those  scarecrow  gloves,  that  he  was  still  putting  them  on,  and 
seemed  to  have  made  no  advance  in  that  labour,  when  we  got  to  my  place. 

I  led  him  up  the  dark  stairs,  to  prevent  his  knocking  his  head  against  anything, 
and  really  his  damp  cold  hand  felt  so  like  a  frog  in  mine,  that  I  was  tempted  to  drop 
it  and  run  away.  Agnes  and  hospitality  prevailed,  however,  and  I  conducted  him 
to  my  fireside.  When  I  lighted  my  candles,  he  fell  into  meek  transports  with  the 
room  that  was  revealed  to  him  ;  and  when  I  heated  the  coffee  in  an  unassuming 
block-tin  vessel  in  which  IMrs.  Crupp  delighted  to  prepare  it  (chiefly,  I  believe,  because 
it  was  not  intended  for  the  purpose,  being  a  shaving-pot,  and  because  there  was  a 
patent  invention  of  great  price  mouldering  away  in  the  pantry),  he  professed  so  much 
emotion,  that  I  could  joyfully  have  scalded  him. 

'  Oh,  really.  Master  Copperfield, — I  mean  Mister  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah,  '  to  see 
you  waiting  upon  me  is  what  I  never  could  have  expected  !  But,  one  way  and  another, 
so  many  things  happen  to  me  which  I  never  could  have  expected,  I  am  sure,  in  my 
umble  station,  that  it  seems  to  rain  blessings  on  my  ed.  You  have  heard  something, 
I  des-say,  of  a  change  in  my  expectations.  Master  Copperfield, — /  should  say.  Mister 
Copperfield  ?  ' 

As  he  sat  on  my  sofa,  with  liis  long  knees  drawn  up  under  his  coffee-cup,  his  hat 
and  gloves  upon  the  ground  close  to  him,  his  spoon  going  softly  round  and  round,  his 
shadowless  red  eyes,  which  looked  as  if  they  had  scorched  their  lashes  off,  turned 
towards  me  without  looking  at  me,  the  disagreeable  dints  I  have  formerly  described 
in  his  nostrils  coming  and  going  with  his  breath,  and  a  snaky  undulation  pervading 
his  frame  from  his  chin  to  his  boots,  I  decided  in  my  own  mind  that  I  disliked  him 
intensely.  It  made  me  very  uncomfortable  to  have  him  for  a  guest,  for  I  was  young 
then,  and  unused  to  disguise  what  I  so  strongly  felt. 

'  You  have  heard  something,  I  des-say,  of  a  change  in  my  expectations,  Master 
Copperfield, — I  should  say,  Mister  Copperfield  ?  '  observed  Uriah. 

'  Yes,'  said  I,  '  something.' 

'  Ah  !  I  thought  Miss  Agnes  would  know  of  it  !  '  he  quietly  returned.  '  I  'm 
glad  to  find  Miss  Agnes  knows  of  it.     Oh,  thank  you.  Master — Mister  Copperfield  !  ' 

I  could  have  thrown  my  bootjack  at  him  (it  lay  ready  on  the  rug),  for  having 
entrapped  me  into  the  disclosure  of  anything  concerning  Agnes,  however  immaterial. 
But  I  only  drank  my  coffee. 

'  What  a  prophet  you  have  shown  yourself.  Mister  Copperfield !  *  pursued 
Uriah.  '  Dear  me,  what  a  prophet  you  have  proved  yourself  to  be  !  Don't 
you  remember  saying  to  me  once,  that  perhaps  I  should  be  a  partner  in  Mr. 
Wickfield's  business,  and  perhaps  it  might  be  Wickfield  and  Ileej)  ?     You  may  not 


GOOD  AND  BAD  ANGELS  245 

recollect  it ;    V)ut  when  a  person   is  iimhle,    Master  Coppcrfield,   a  person   treasures 
such  things  up  !  ' 

'  I  recollect  talking  about  it,'  said  I,  '  though  I  certainly  did  not  think  it  very 
likely  then.' 

'  Oh  I  who  loould  have  thought  it  likely,  Mister  Copperfieid  !  '  returned  Uriah, 
enthusiastically.  '  I  am  sure  I  didn't  myself.  I  recollect  saying  with  my  own  lips 
that  I  was  much  too  umhie.     So  I  considered  myself  really  and  truly.' 

He  sat,  with  that  carved  grin  on  his  face,  looking  at  the  fire,  as  I  looked  at  him. 

'  But  the  umblest  persons,  Master  Coppcrfield,'  he  presently  resumed,  '  may  be  the 

instruments  of  good.     I  am  glad  to  think  T  have  been  the  instrument  of  good  to 

Mr.  Wickfield,  and  that  I  may  be  more  so.     Oh,  what  a  worthy  man  he  is,  Mister 

Coppcrfield,  but  how  imprudent  he  has  been  !  ' 

'  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,'  said  I.  I  could  not  help  adding,  rather  pointedl}-,  '  on 
all  accounts.' 

'  Decidedly  so,  Mister  Coppcrfield,'  replied  Uriah.  '  On  all  accounts.  Miss 
Agnes's  above  all  !  You  don't  remember  your  own  eloquent  expressions,  Master 
Copperfieid  ;  but  /  remember  how  you  said  one  day  that  everybody  must  admire 
her,  and  how  I  thanked  you  for  it  !  You  have  forgot  that  I  have  no  doubt,  Master 
Copperfieid  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  I,  drily. 

'  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  you  have  not  !  '  exclaimed  Uriah.  '  To  think  that  you 
should  be  the  first  to  kindle  the  sparks  of  ambition  in  my  umble  breast,  and  that 
you  've  not  forgot  it  !     Oh  ! — Would  you  excuse  me  asking  for  a  cup  more  coffee  ?  ' 

Something  in  the  emphasis  he  laid  upon  the  kindling  of  those  sparks,  and  some- 
thing in  the  glance  he  directed  at  me  as  he  said  it,  had  made  me  start  as  if  I  had  seen 
him  illuminated  by  a  blaze  of  light.  Recalled  by  his  request,  preferred  in  quite  another 
tone  of  voice,  I  did  the  honours  of  the  shaving-pot ;  but  I  did  them  with  an  unsteadiness 
of  hand,  a  sudden  sense  of  being  no  match  for  him,  and  a  perplexed  suspicious  anxiety 
as  to  what  he  might  be  going  to  say  next,  which  I  felt  could  not  escape  his  observation. 
He  said  nothing  at  all.  He  stirred  his  coffee  round  and  round,  he  sipped  it,  he 
felt  his  chin  softly  with  his  grisly  hand,  he  looked  at  the  fire,  he  looked  about  the  room, 
he  gasped  rather  than  smiled  at  me,  he  •svrithed  and  undulated  about,  in  his  deferential 
servility,  he  stirred  and  sipped  again,  but  he  left  the  renewal  of  the  conversation  to  me. 
'  So,  Mr.  Wickfield,'  said  I,  at  last,  '  who  is  worth  five  hundred  of  you — or  me  '  ; 
for  my  life,  I  think,  I  could  not  have  helped  dividing  that  part  of  the  sentence  ^^•ith  an 
awkward  jerk  ;    '  has  been  imprudent,  has  he,  Mr.  Heep  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  very  imprudent  indeed,  jMaster  Copperfieid,'  returned  Uriah,  sighing 
modestly.  '  Oh,  very  much  so  !  But  I  wish  you  'd  call  me  Uriah,  if  you  please. 
It 's  like  old  times.' 

'  Well  !    Uriah,'  said  I,  bolting  it  out  with  some  difficulty. 

'  Thank  you  !  '   he  returned,  with  fervour.     '  Thank  you,  Master  Copperfieid  ! 
It 's  like  the  blowing  of  old  breezes  or  the  ringing  of  old  bellses  to  hear  you  say  Uriah. 
I  beg  your  pardon.     Was  I  making  any  observation  ?  ' 
'  About  Mr.  Wickfield,'  I  suggested. 

'  Oh  !  Yes,  truly,'  said  Uriah.  '  Ah  !  Great  imprudence.  Master  Copperfieid. 
It 's  a  topic  that  I  wouldn't  touch  upon,  to  any  soul  but  you.  Even  to  you  I  can  only 
touch  upon  it,  and  no  more.  If  any  one  else  had  been  in  my  place  during  the  last 
few  years,  by  this  time  he  would  have  had  Mr.  Wickfield  (oh,  what  a  worthy  man  he  is. 


246  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

IMaster  Copperfield,  too  !)  under  his  thumb.  Un — der — his  thumb,'  said  Uriah,  very 
slowly,  as  he  stretched  out  his  cruel-looking  hand  above  my  table,  and  pressed  his  own 
thumb  down  upon  it,  until  it  shook,  and  shook  the  room. 

If  I  had  been  obliged  to  look  at  him  with  his  splay  foot  on  Mr.  VVickfield's  head, 
I  think  I  could  scarcely  have  hated  him  more. 

'  Oh,  dear  yes.  Master  Copperfield,'  he  proceeded,  in  a  soft  voice,  most  remarkably 
contrasting  with  the  action  of  his  thumb,  which  did  not  diminish  its  hard  pressure  in 
the  least  degree,  '  there  's  no  doubt  of  it.  There  would  have  been  loss,  disgrace,  I  don't 
know  what  all.  Mr.  Wickfield  knows  it.  I  am  the  umble  instrument  of  umbly  serving 
him,  and  he  puts  me  on  an  eminence  I  hardly  could  have  hoped  to  reach.  How 
thankful  should  I  be  ! '  With  his  face  turned  towards  me,  as  he  finished,  but  without 
looking  at  me,  he  took  his  crooked  thumb  off  the  spot  where  he  had  planted  it,  and 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  scraped  his  lank  jaw  with  it,  as  if  he  were  shaving  himself. 

I  recollect  well  how  indignantly  my  heart  beat,  as  I  saw  his  crafty  face,  with  the 
appropriately  red  light  of  the  fire  upon  it,  preparing  for  something  else. 

'  Master  Copperfield,'  he  began — '  but  am  I  keeping  you  up  ?  ' 

'  You  are  not  keeping  me  up.     I  generally  go  to  bed  late.' 

'  Thank  you.  Master  Copperfield  !  I  have  risen  from  my  umble  station  since 
first  you  used  to  address  me,  it  is  true  ;  but  I  am  umble  still.  I  hope  I  never  shall 
be  otherwise  than  umble.  You  will  not  think  the  worse  of  my  umbleness,  if  I  make 
a  little  confidence  to  you.  Master  Copperfield  ?     Will  you  ?  ' 

'  Oh  no,'  said  I,  with  an  effort. 

'  Thank  you  !  '  He  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  began  wiping  the  palms 
of  his  hands.     '  Miss  Agnes,  Master  Copperfield ' 

'  Well,  Uriah  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  how  pleasant  to  be  called  Uriah,  spontaneously  !  '  he  cried  ;  and  gave 
himself  a  jerk,  like  a  convulsive  fish.  '  You  thought  her  looking  very  beautiful  to-night, 
Master  Copperfield  ?  ' 

'  I  thought  her  looking  as  she  always  does  :  superior,  in  all  respects,  to  every  one 
around  her,'  I  returned. 

'  Oh,  thank  you  !     It 's  so  true  !  '  he  cried.     '  Oh,  thank  you  very  much  for  that  !  ' 

'  Not  at  all,'  I  said,  loftily.     '  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  thank  me.' 

'  \\Tiy  that,  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah,  '  is,  in  fact,  the  confidence  that  I  am 
going  to  take  the  liberty  of  reposing.  Umble  as  I  am,'  he  wiped  his  hands  harder, 
and  looked  at  them  and  at  the  fire  by  turns,  '  umble  as  my  mother  is,  and  lowly  as  our 
poor  but  honest  roof  has  ever  been,  the  image  of  Miss  Agnes  (I  don't  mind  trusting 
you  with  my  secret.  Master  Copperfield,  for  I  have  alwa}s  overflowed  towards  you 
since  the  first  moment  I  had  the  pleasure  of  beholding  you  in  a  pony-shay)  has  been 
in  my  breast  for  years.  Oh,  Master  Copperfield,  with  what  a  pure  affection  do  I  love 
the  ground  my  Agnes  walks  on  !  ' 

I  believe  I  had  a  delirious  idea  of  seizing  the  red-hot  poker  out  of  the  fire,  and 
ruiming  him  through  with  it.  It  went  from  me  with  a  shock,  like  a  ball  fired  from  a 
rifle  :  but  the  image  of  Agnes,  outraged  by  so  much  as  a  thought  of  this  red-headed 
animal's,  remained  in  my  mind  (when  I  looked  at  him,  sitting  all  awry  as  if  his  mean 
soul  griped  his  body),  and  made  me  giddy.  He  seemed  to  swell  and  grow  before  my 
eyes  ;  the  room  seemed  full  of  the  echoes  of  his  voice  ;  and  the  strange  feeling  (to  which, 
perhaps,  no  one  is  quite  a  stranger)  that  all  this  had  occurred  before,  at  some  indefaiite 
time,  and  that  I  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say  next,  took  possession  of  me. 


(iOOD  AND  JiAD  ANUELS  247 

A  timely  ol),scrvation  of  the  sense  of  jmwer  that  there  was  in  liis  face,  did  more 
to  bring  hack  to  my  remembrance  the  entreaty  of  Agnes,  in  its  full  force,  than  any 
effort  I  could  have  made.  I  asked  him,  with  a  better  ajjpearanee  of  composure  than 
I  could  have  thought  possible  a  ininute  before,  wliether  he  had  made  his  feelings 
known  to  Agnes. 

'  Oh  no,  Master  Copperfield  !  '  he  returned  ;  '  oh  dear,  no  !  Not  to  any  one  but 
you.  You  see  I  am  only  just  emerging  from  my  lowly  station.  I  rest  a  good  deal  of 
hope  on  her  observing  how  useful  I  am  to  her  father  (for  I  trust  to  be  very  useful  to 
him  indeed.  Master  Copperfield),  and  how  I  smooth  the  way  for  him,  and  keep  him 
straight.  She  's  so  much  attached  to  her  father.  Master  Cofjperfield  (oh  what  a  lovely 
thing  it  is  in  a  daughter  !),  that  I  think  she  may  come,  on  his  account,  to  be  kind  to  me.' 
I  fathomed  the  depth  of  the  rascal's  whole  scheme,  and  understood  why  he  laid 
it  bare. 

'  If  you  '11  have  the  goodness  to  keep  my  secret.  Master  Copperfield,'  he  pursued, 
'and  not,  in  general  to  go  against  me,  I  shall  take  it  as  a  particular  favour.  You 
wouldn't  wish  to  make  unpleasantness.  I  know  what  a  friendly  heart  you  've  got ; 
l)ut  having  only  known  me  on  my  umble  footing  (on  my  umblest,  I  should  say,  for  I 
am  very  uml)le  still),  you  might,  unbeknown,  go  against  me  rather,  with  my  Agnes. 
I  call  her  mine,  you  see.  Master  Copperfield.  There  's  a  song  that  says,  "  I  'd  crowns 
resign,  to  cull  her  mine  !  "     I  hope  to  do  it,  one  of  these  days.' 

Dear  Agnes  !  So  much  too  loving  and  too  good  for  any  one  that  I  could  think 
of,  was  it  possible  that  she  was  reserved  to  be  the  wife  of  such  a  wretch  as  this  ! 

'  There  's  no  hurry  at  present,  you  know.  Master  Copperfield,'  Uriah  proceeded, 
in  his  slimy  way,  as  I  sat  gazing  at  him,  with  this  thought  in  my  mind.  '  My  Agnes 
is  very  young  still  ;  and  mother  and  me  will  have  to  work  our  way  upwards,  and  make 
a  good  many  new  arrangements,  before  it  would  be  quite  convenient.  So  I  shall  have 
time  gradually  to  make  her  familiar  with  my  hopes,  as  opj)ortunities  offer.  Oh,  I  'm 
so  much  obliged  to  you  for  this  confidence  !  Oh,  it 's  such  a  relief,  you  can't  think, 
to  know  that  you  understand  our  situation,  and  are  certain  (as  you  wouldn't  wish  to 
make  unpleasantness  in  the  family)  not  to  go  against  me  !  ' 

He  took  the  hand  which  I  dared  not  withliold,  and  having  given  it  a  damp  squeeze, 
referred  to  his  pale-faced  watch. 

'  Dear  me  !  '  he  said,  '  it 's  past  one.  The  moments  slip  away  so,  in  the  confidence 
of  old  times.  Master  Copperfield,  that  it  's  almost  half-past  one  !  ' 

I  answered  that  I  thought  it  was  later.  Not  that  I  had  really  thought  so,  but 
because  my  conversational  powers  were  effectually  scattered. 

'  Dear  me  !  '  he  said,  considering.  '  The  ouse  that  I  am  stopping  at — a  sort  of  a 
private  hotel  and  boarding  ouse.  Master  Copperfield,  near  the  New  River  ed — will 
have  gone  to  bed  these  two  hours.' 

'  I  am  sorry,'  I  returned,  '  that  there  is  only  one  bed  here,  and  that  I — ■ — * 
'  Oh,  don't  think  of  mentioning  beds,  Master  Copperfield  !  '  he  rejoined  ecstatically, 
drawing  up  one  leg.     '  But  would  you  have  any  objections  to  my  laying  down  before 
the  fire  ?  ' 

'  If  it  comes  to  that,'  I  said,  '  pray  take  my  bed,  and  I  '11  lie  down  before  the  fire.' 

His  repudiation  of  this  offer  was  almost  shrill  enough,  in  the  excess  of  its  surprise 

and  humility,  to  have  penetrated  to  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  then  sleeping,  I  suppose, 

in  a  distant  chamber,  situated  at  about  the  level  of  low  water-mark,  soothed  in  her 

slumbers  by  the  ticking  of  an  incorrigible  clock,  to  which  she  always  referred  me  when 


248  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

we  had  any  little  difference  on  the  score  of  punctuality,  and  which  was  never  less  than 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  too  slow,  and  had  always  been  put  right  in  the  morning  by 
the  best  authorities.  As  no  arguments  I  could  urge,  in  my  bewildered  condition,  had 
the  least  effect  upon  his  modesty  in  inducing  him  to  accept  my  bedroom,  I  was  obliged 
to  make  the  best  arrangements  I  could,  for  his  repose  before  the  fire.  The  mattress 
of  the  sofa  (which  was  a  great  deal  too  short  for  his  lank  figure),  the  sofa  pillows,  a 
blanket,  the  table-cover,  a  clean  breakfast-cloth,  and  a  great-coat,  made  him  a  bed 
and  covering,  for  which  he  was  more  than  thankful.  Having  lent  him  a  night-cap, 
which  he  put  on  at  once,  and  in  which  he  made  such  an  awful  figure,  that  I  have  never 
worn  one  since,  I  left  him  to  his  rest. 

I  never  shall  forget  that  night.  I  never  shall  forget  how  I  turned  and  tumbled  ; 
how  I  wearied  myself  with  thinking  about  Agnes  and  this  creature  ;  how  I  considered 
what  could  I  do,  and  what  ought  I  to  do  ;  how  I  could  come  to  no  other  conclusion 
than  that  the  best  course  for  her  peace,  was  to  do  nothing,  and  to  keep  to  myself 
what  I  had  heard.  If  I  went  to  sleep  for  a  few  moments,  the  image  of  Agnes  with  her 
tender  eyes,  and  of  her  father  looking  fondly  on  her,  as  I  had  so  often  seen  him  look, 
arose  before  me  with  appealing  faces,  and  filled  me  with  vague  terrors.  When  I 
awoke,  the  recollection  that  Uriah  was  lying  in  the  next  room,  sat  heavy  on  me  like 
a  waking  nightmare  ;  and  oppressed  me  with  a  leaden  dread,  as  if  I  had  had  some 
meaner  quality  of  devil  for  a  lodger. 

The  poker  got  into  my  dozing  thoughts  besides,  and  wouldn't  come  out.  I 
thought,  between  sleeping  and  waking,  that  it  was  still  red-hot,  and  I  had  snatched  it 
out  of  the  fire,  and  run  him  through  the  body.  I  was  so  haunted  at  last  by  the  idea, 
though  I  knew  there  was  nothing  in  it,  that  I  stole  into  the  next  room  to  look  at  him. 
There  I  saw  him,  lying  on  his  back,  with  his  legs  extending  to  I  don't  know  where, 
gurglings  taking  place  in  his  throat,  stoppages  in  his  nose,  and  his  mouth  open  like  a 
post-office.  He  was  so  much  worse  in  reality  than  in  my  distempered  fancy,  that  after- 
wards I  was  attracted  to  him  in  very  repulsion,  and  could  not  help  wandering  in  and 
out  every  half-hour  or  so,  and  taking  another  look  at  him.  Still,  the  long,  long  night 
seemed  heavy  and  hopeless  as  ever,  and  no  promise  of  day  was  in  the  miu"ky  sky. 

When  I  saw  him  going  downstairs  early  in  the  morning  (for,  thank  Heaven  ! 
he  would  not  stay  to  breakfast),  it  appeared  to  me  as  if  the  night  was  going  away  in 
his  person.  \ATien  I  went  out  to  the  Commons,  I  charged  Mrs.  Crupp  with  particular 
directions  to  leave  the  windows  open,  that  my  sitting-room  might  be  aired,  and  purged 
of  his  presence. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

I    FALL    INTO    CAPTIVITY 

I  SAW  no  more  of  Uriah  Heep  until  the  day  when  Agnes  left  town.  I  was  at 
the  coach-office  to  take  leave  of  her  and  see  her  go  ;  and  there  was  he,  returning 
to  Canterbury  by  the  same  conveyance.  It  was  some  small  satisfaction  to  me 
to  observe  his  spare,  short-waisted,  high-shouldared.  mulberry-coloured  great- 
coat perched  up,  in  company  with  an  umbrella  like  a  small  tent,  on  the  edge  of  the 
back-seat  on  the  roof,  while  Agnes  was,  of  course,  inside  ;  but  what  I  underwent  in  my 


I    FALL  INTO  CAPTIVITY  249 

efforts  to  be  friendly  with  him,  while  Agnes  looked  <»n,  perhaps  deserved  that  htlle 
recompense.  At  the  eoaeh-window,  as  at  the  dinner-party,  he  hovered  ahont  us 
without  a  moment's  intermission,  iii^e  a  great  vulture  :  gorging  himself  on  every 
syllable  that  I  said  to  Afrncs,  or  Af,'nes  said  to  nie. 

In  the  state  of  troul)le  into  which  his  disclosure  by  my  (ire  had  thrown  nie,  I  liad 
thought  very  much  of  the  words  Agnes  had  used  in  reference  to  the  partnership  :  '  I 
did  what  I  hope  was  right.  Feeling  sure  that  it  was  necessary  for  papa's  peace  that  the 
sacrifice  should  be  made,  I  entreated  him  to  make  it.'  A  miserable  foreboding  that  she 
would  yield  to,  and  sustain  herself  by,  the  same  feeling  in  reference  to  any  sacrifice 
for  his  sake,  had  oppressed  me  ever  since.  I  knew  how  she  loved  him.  I  knew  what 
the  devotion  of  her  nature  was.  I  knew  from  her  own  lips  that  she  regarded  herself  as 
the  innocent  cause  of  his  errors,  and  as  owing  him  a  great  debt  she  ardently  desired  to 
pay.  I  had  no  consolation  in  seeing  how  different  she  was  from  this  detestable  Rufus 
with  the  mulberry-coloured  great-coat,  for  I  felt  that  in  the  very  difference  between 
them,  in  the  self-denial  of  her  pure  soul  and  the  sordid  baseness  of  his,  the  greatest 
danger  lay.  All  this,  doubtless,  he  knew  thoroughly,  and  had,  in  his  cunning, 
considered  well. 

Yet,  I  was  so  certain  that  the  prospect  of  such  a  sacrifice  afar  off,  must  destroy 
the  happiness  of  Agnes  ;  and  I  was  so  sure,  from  her  manner,  of  its  being  unseen  by 
her  then,  and  having  cast  no  shadow  on  her  yet  ;  that  I  could  as  soon  have  injured  her, 
as  given  her  any  warning  of  what  impended.  Thus  it  was  that  we  parted  without 
explanation  :  she  waving  her  hand  and  smiling  farewell  from  the  coach-window  ;  her 
evil  genius  writhing  on  the  roof,  as  if  he  had  her  in  his  clutches  and  triumphed. 

I  could  not  get  over  this  farewell  glimpse  of  them  for  a  long  time.  When  Agnes 
wrote  to  tell  me  of  her  safe  arrival,  I  was  as  miserable  as  when  I  saw  her  going  away. 
Wlienever  I  fell  into  a  thoughtful  state,  this  subject  was  sure  to  present  itself,  and  all 
my  uneasiness  was  sure  to  be  redoubled.  Hardly  a  night  passed  without  my  dreaming 
of  it.     It  became  a  part  of  my  life,  and  as  inseparable  from  my  life  as  my  own  head. 

I  had  ample  leisure  to  refine  upon  my  uneasiness  :  for  Steerforth  was  at  Oxford, 
as  he  wrote  to  me,  and  when  I  was  not  at  the  Commons.  I  was  very  much  alone.  I 
believe  I  had  at  this  time  some  lurking  distrust  of  Steerforth.  I  wrote  to  him  most 
affectionately  in  reply  to  his,  but  I  think  I  was  glad,  upon  the  Avhole,  that  he  could  not 
come  to  London  just  then.  I  suspect  the  truth  to  be,  that  the  influence  of  Agnes 
was  upon  me,  undisturbed  by  the  sight  of  him  ;  and  that  it  was  the  more  powerful 
with  me,  because  she  had  so  large  a  share  in  my  thoughts  and  interest. 

In  the  meantime,  days  and  weeks  slipped  away.  I  was  articled  to  Spenlow  and 
Jorkins.  I  had  ninety  pounds  a  year  (exclusive  of  my  house-rent  and  sundry  collateral 
matters)  from  mj'^  aunt.  My  rooms  were  engaged  for  twelve  months  certain  :  and 
though  I  still  found  them  dreary  of  an  evening,  and  the  evenings  long,  I  could  settle 
down  into  a  state  of  equable  low  spirits,  and  resign  myself  to  coffee  ;  which  I  seem, 
on  looking  back,  to  have  taken  by  the  gallon  at  about  this  period  of  my  existence. 
At  about  this  time,  too,  I  made  three  discoveries  :  first,  that  Mrs.  Crupp  was  a  martyr 
to  a  curious  disorder  called  '  the  spazzums,'  which  was  generally  accompanied  with 
inflammation  of  the  nose,  and  required  to  be  constantly  treated  with  peppermint ; 
secondly,  that  something  peculiar  in  the  temperature  of  my  pantry,  made  the  brandy- 
bottles  burst ;  thirdly,  that  I  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  much  given  to  record  that 
circumstance  in  fragments  of  English  versification. 

On  the  day  when  I  was  articled,  no  festivity  took  place,  beyond  my  having  sand- 


250  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

wiches  and  sherry  into  the  office  for  the  clerks,  and  going  alone  to  the  theatre  at  night. 
I  went  to  see  '  The  Stranger  '  as  a  Doctors'  Commons  sort  of  play,  and  was  so  dreadfully 
cut  up,  that  I  hardly  knew  myself  in  my  own  glass  when  I  got  home.  Mr.  Spenlow 
remarked,  on  this  occasion,  when  we  concluded  our  business,  that  he  should  have 
been  happy  to  have  seen  me  at  his  house  at  Norwood  to  celebrate  our  becoming 
connected,  but  for  his  domestic  arrangements  being  in  some  disorder,  on  account 
of  the  expected  return  of  his  daughter  from  finishing  her  education  at  Paris.  But, 
he  intimated  that  when  she  came  home  he  should  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
entertaining  me.  I  knew  that  he  was  a  widower  with  one  daughter,  and  expressed 
my  acknowledgments. 

Mr.  Spenlow  was  as  good  as  his  word.  In  a  week  or  two,  he  referred  to  this 
engagement,  and  said,  that  if  I  would  do  him  the  favour  to  come  down  next  Saturday, 
and  stay  till  Monday,  he  would  be  extremely  happy.  Of  course  I  said  I  would  do  him 
the  favour  ;   and  he  was  to  drive  me  down  in  his  phaeton,  and  to  bring  me  back. 

When  the  day  arrived,  my  very  carpet-bag  was  an  object  of  veneration  to  the 
stipendiary  clerks,  to  whom  the  house  at  Norwood  was  a  sacred  mystery.  One  of  them 
informed  me  that  he  had  heard  that  Mr.  Spenlow  ate  entirely  off  plate  and  china  ; 
and  another  hinted  at  champagne  being  constantly  on  draught,  after  the  usual  custom 
of  table  beer.  The  old  'clerk  with  the  wig,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Tiffey,  had  been 
down  on  business  several  times  in  the  course  of  his  career,  and  had  on  each  occasion 
penetrated  to  the  breakfast-parlour.  He  described  it  as  an  apartment  of  the  most 
sumptuous  nature,  and  said  that  he  had  drank  brown  East  India  sherry  there,  of  a 
quality  so  precious  as  to  make  a  man  wink. 

We  had  an  adjourned  cause  in  the  Consistory  that  day — about  excommunicating 
a  baker  who  had  been  objecting  in  a  vestry  to  a  paving-rate — and  as  the  evidence  was 
just  twice  the  length  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  according  to  a  calculation  I  made,  it  was 
rather  late  in  the  day  before  we  finished.  However,  we  got  him  excommunicated 
for  six  weeks,  and  sentenced  in  no  end  of  costs  ;  and  then  the  baker's  proctor,  and  the 
judge,  and  the  advocates  on  both  sides  (who  were  all  nearly  related),  went  out  of 
town  together,  and  Mr.  Spenlow  and  I  drove  away  in  the  phaeton. 

The  phaeton  was  a  very  handsome  affair  ;  the  horses  arched  their  necks  and 
lifted  up  their  legs  as  if  they  knew  they  belonged  to  Doctors'  Commons.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  competition  in  the  Commons  on  all  points  of  display,  and  it  turned  out 
some  very  choice  equipages  then  ;  though  I  always  have  considered,  and  always  shall 
consider,  that  in  my  time  the  great  article  of  competition  there  was  starch  :  which 
I  think  was  worn  among  the  proctors  to  as  great  an  extent  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of 
man  to  bear. 

We  were  very  pleasant,  going  down,  and  Mr.  Spenlow  gave  me  some  hints  in 
reference  to  my  profession.  He  said  it  was  the  genteelest  profession  in  the  world, 
and  must  on  no  account  be  confounded  with  the  profession  of  a  solicitor  :  being 
quite  another  sort  of  thing,  infinitely  more  exclusive,  less  mechanical,  and  more  profit- 
able. We  took  things  much  more  easily  in  the  Commons  than  they  could  be  taken 
anywhere  else,  he  observed,  and  that  sets  us,  as  a  privileged  class,  apart.  He  said 
it  was  impossible  to  conceal  the  disagreeable  fact,  that  we  were  chiefly  employed  by 
solicitors  ;  but  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  they  were  an  inferior  race  of  men, 
universally  looked  down  upon  by  all  proctors  of  any  pretensions. 

I  asked  Mr.  Spenlow  what  he  considered  the  best  sort  of  professional  business  ? 
He  replied,  that  a  good  case  of  a  disputed  will,  where  there  was  a  neat  little  estate  of 


I  FALL  INTO  C7VPTIVITY  251 

thirty  or  forty  thousand  pornifls,  was,  perhaps,  the  best  of  all.  In  such  a  case,  lie  said, 
not  only  were  there  very  pretty  picivings,  in  the  way  of  arguments  at  every  stage  of 
the  proceedings,  and  mountains  upon  mountains  of  evidence  on  interrogatory  and 
counter-interrogatory  (to  say  nothing  of  an  appeal  lying,  first  to  the  Delegates,  and 
then  to  the  Lords)  ;  hut,  the  costs  heing  pretty  sure  to  come  out  of  the  estate  at  last, 
both  sides  went  at  it  in  a  lively  and  spirited  manner,  and  expense  was  no  consideration. 
Then,  he  launched  into  a  general  eulogium  on  the  Commons.  What  was  to  be  particu- 
larly admired  (he  said)  in  the  Commons,  was  its  compactness.  It  was  the  most  con- 
veniently organised  place  in  the  world.  It  was  the  complete  idea  of  snugness.  It 
lay  in  a  nut-shell.  For  example  :  You  brought  a  divorce  case,  or  a  restitution  case, 
into  the  Consistory.  Very  good.  You  tried  it  in  the  Consistory.  You  made  a  quiet 
little  round  game  of  it,  among  a  family  group,  and  you  played  it  out  at  leisure.  Suppose 
you  were  not  satisfied  with  the  Consistory,  what  did  you  do  then  '!  Why,  you  went  into 
the  Arches.  What  was  the  Arches  ?  The  same  court,  in  the  same  room,  with  the 
same  bar,  and  the  same  practitioners,  but  another  judge,  for  there  the  Consistory 
judge  could  plead  any  court-day  as  an  advocate.  Well,  you  played  your  round  game 
out  again.  Still  you  were  not  satisfied.  Very  good.  What  did  you  do  then  ?  Why, 
you  went  to  the  Delegates.  Who  were  the  Delegates  ?  Why,  the  Ecclesiastical 
Delegates  were  the  advocates  without  any  business,  who  had  looked  on  at  the  round 
game  when  it  was  playing  in  both  courts,  and  had  seen  the  cards  shuffled,  and  cut, 
and  played,  and  had  talked  to  all  the  players  about  it,  and  now  came  fresh,  as  judges, 
to  settle  the  matter  to  the  satisfaction  of  everybody  !  Discontented  people  might  talk 
of  corruption  in  the  Commons,  closeness  in  the  Commons,  and  the  necessity  of  reforming 
the  Commons,  said  Mr.  Spenlow  solemnly,  in  conclusion  ;  l)ut  when  the  jjrice  of  wheat 
per  bushel  had  been  highest,  the  Commons  had  been  busiest ;  and  a  man  might  lay  his 
hand  upon  his  heart,  and  say  this  to  the  whole  world, — '  Touch  the  Commons,  and 
down  comes  the  country  !  ' 

I  listened  to  all  this  with  attention  ;  and  though,  I  must  say,  I  had  my  doubts 
whether  the  country  was  quite  as  much  obliged  to  the  Commons  as  Mr.  Spenlow 
made  out,  I  respectfully  deferred  to  his  opinion.  That  about  the  price  of  wheat  per 
bushel,  I  modestly  felt  was  too  much  for  my  strength,  and  quite  settled  the  question. 
I  have  never,  to  this  hour,  got  the  better  of  that  bushel  of  wheat.  It  has  re-appeared 
to  annihilate  me,  all  through  my  life,  in  connection  with  all  kinds  of  subjects.  I 
don't  know  now,  exactly,  what  it  has  to  do  with  me,  or  what  right  it  has  to  crush  me, 
on  an  infinite  variety  of  occasions  ;  but  whenever  I  see  my  old  friend  the  bushel 
brought  in  by  the  head  and  shoulders  (as  he  always  is,  I  observe),  I  give  up  a  subject 
for  lost. 

This  is  a  digression.  /  was  not  the  man  to  touch  the  Commons,  and  bring  down 
the  country.  I  submissively  expressed,  by  my  silence,  my  acquiescence  in  all  I  had 
heard  from  my  superior  in  years  and  knowledge  ;  and  we  talked  about  '  The  Stranger  ' 
and  the  Drama,  and  the  pair  of  horses,  until  we  came  to  Mr.  Spenlow's  gate. 

There  was  a  lovely  garden  to  Mr.  Spenlow's  house  ;  and  though  that  was  not  the 
best  time  of  the  year  for  seeing  a  garden,  it  was  so  beautifully  kept,  that  I  was  quite 
enchanted.  There  was  a  charming  lawn,  there  were  clusters  of  trees,  and  there  were 
perspective  walks  that  I  could  just  distinguish  in  the  dark,  arched  over  with  trellis- 
work,  on  which  shrubs  and  flowers  grew  in  the  growing  season.  '  Here  Miss  Spenlow 
walks  by  herself,'  I  thought.     '  Dear  me  !  ' 

We  went  into  the  house,  which  was  cheerfully  lighted  up,  and  into  a  hall  where 


252  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

there  were  all  sorts  of  hats,  caps,  great-coats,  plaids,  gloves,  whips,  and  walking  sticks. 
'  \Miere  is  Miss  Dora  ?  '  said  Mr.  Spenlow  to  the  servant.  '  Dora  ! '  I  thought.  '  What 
a  beautiful  name  ! ' 

We  turned  into  a  room  near  at  hand  (I  think  it  was  the  identical  breakfast-room, 
made  memorable  by  the  brown  East  Indian  sherry),  and  I  heard  a  voice  say,  '  Mr. 
Copperfield,  my  daughter  Dora,  and  my  daughter  Dora's  confidential  friend  !  '  It 
was,  no  doubt,  Mr.  Spenlow's  voice,  but  I  didn't  know  it,  and  I  didn't  care  whose  it 
was.  All  was  over  in  a  moment.  I  had  fulfilled  my  destin3\  I  was  a  captive  and  a 
slave.     I  loved  Dora  Spenlow  to  distraction  ! 

She  was  more  than  human  to  me.  She  was  a  Fairy,  a  Sylph,  I  don't  know  what 
she  was — anything  that  no  one  ever  saw,  and  everything  that  everybody  ever  wanted. 
I  was  swallowed  up  in  an  abyss  of  love  in  an  instant.  There  was  no  pausing  on  the 
brink  ;  no  looking  down,  or  looking  back  ;  I  was  gone,  headlong,  before  I  had  sense 
to  say  a  word  to  her. 

'  /,'  observed  a  well-remembered  voice,  when  I  had  bowed  and  murmiu-ed  some- 
thing, '  have  seen  Mr.  Copperfield  before.' 

The  speaker  was  not  Dora.     No  :   the  confidential  friend.  Miss  Murdstone  ! 

I  don't  think  I  was  much  astonished.  To  the  best  of  my  judgment,  no  capacity 
of  astonishment  was  left  in  me.  There  was  nothing  worth  mentioning  in  the  material 
world,  but  Dora  Spenlow,  to  be  astonished  about.  I  said,  '  How  do  you  do,  Miss 
Murdstone  ?  I  hope  you  are  well  ?  '  She  answered,  '  Very  well.'  I  said,  '  How  is 
Mr.  Murdstone  ?  '     She  replied,  '  My  brother  is  robust,  I  am  obliged  to  you.' 

Mr.  Spenlow,  who,  I  suppose,  had  been  surprised  to  see  us  recognise  each  other, 
then  put  in  his  word. 

'  I  am  glad  to  find,'  he  said,  '  Copperfield,  that  you  and  Miss  Murdstone  are  already 
acquainted.' 

'  Mr.  Copperfield  and  myself,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  with  severe  composure,  '  are 
connections.  W^e  were  once  shghtly  acquainted.  It  was  in  his  childish  days.  Circum- 
stances have  separated  us  since.     I  should  not  have  known  him.' 

I  replied  that  I  should  have  know  her,  anywhere,     ^\^lich  was  true  enough. 

'  Miss  Murdstone  has  had  the  goodness,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow  to  me,  '  to  accept  the 
office — if  I  may  so  describe  it — of  my  daughter  Dora's  confidential  friend.  My  daughter 
Dora  having,  unhappih',  no  mother.  Miss  Murdstone  is  obliging  enough  to  become  her 
companion  and  protector.' 

A  passing  thought  occurred  to  me  that  Miss  Murdstone,  like  the  pocket-instrument 
called  a  life-preserver,  was  not  so  much  designed  for  purposes  of  protection  as  of  assault. 
But  as  I  had  none  but  passing  thoughts  for  any  subject  save  Dora,  I  glanced  at  her, 
directly  afterwards,  and  was  thinking  that  I  saw.  in  her  prettily  pettish  manner,  that 
she  was  not  very  much  inclined  to  be  particularly  confidential  to  her  companion  and 
protector,  when  a  bell  rang,  which  Mr.  Spenlow  said  was  the  first  dinner-bell,  and  so 
carried  me  off  to  dress. 

The  idea  of  dressing  one's  self,  or  doing  anvthing  in  the  way  of  action,  in  that 
state  of  love,  was  a  little  too  ridiculous.  I  could  only  sit  down  before  my  fire,  biting 
the  key  of  my  carpet-bag,  and  think  of  the  captivating,  girlish,  bright-eyed,  lovely 
Dora.  What  a  form  she  had,  what  a  face  she  had,  what  a  graceful,  variable, 
enchanting  manner  ! 

The  bell  rang  again  so  soon  that  I  made  a  mere  scramble  of  my  dressing,  instead 
of  the  careful  operation  I  could  have  wished  under  the  circumstances,  and  went 


1  FALL  INTO  CAPTIVITY  iir,8 

downstairs.  There  was  some  company.  Dora  was  talkin(»  to  an  okl  ((fiit)eman 
with  a  grey  head.  Grey  as  he  was— and  a  great-grandfather  into  the  bargain,  for 
he  said  so — I  was  madly  jealons  of  him. 

What  a  state  of  mind  I  was  in  !  I  was  jealous  of  everybody.  I  couldn't  bear 
the  idea  of  anybody  knowing  ^Ir.  Spenlovv  bettor  than  I  did.  It  was  torturing  to  me 
to  hear  them  talk  of  occurrences  in  which  I  had  had  no  share.  When  a  most  amiable 
person,  with  a  highly  polished  bald  head,  asked  me  across  the  dinner-table,  if  that 
were  the  first  occasion  of  my  seeing  the  grounds,  I  could  have  done  anything  to  him 
that  was  savage  and  revengeful. 

I  don't  remember  who  was  there,  except  Dora.  I  have  not  the  least  idea  what  we 
had  for  dinner,  besides  Dora.  My  impression  is,  that  I  dined  off  Dora  entirely,  and 
sent  away  half  a  dozen  plates  untouched.  I  sat  next  to  her.  I  talked  to  her.  She 
had  the  most  delightful  little  voice,  the  gayest  little  laugh,  the  pleasantest  and  most 
fascinating  little  ways,  that  ever  led  a  lost  youth  into  hopeless  slavery.  She  was  rather 
diminutive  altogether.     So  much  the  more  precious,  I  thought. 

When  she  went  out  of  the  room  with  Miss  Murdstone  (no  other  ladies  were  of  the 
party),  I  fell  into  a  reverie,  only  disturbed  by  the  cruel  apprehension  that  iMiss  Murd- 
stone would  dispaiBge  me  to  her.  The  amiable  creature  with  the  polished  head  told 
me  a  long  story,  which  I  think  was  about  gardening.  I  think  I  heard  him  say,  '  my 
gardener,'  several  times.  I  seemed  to  pay  the  deepest  attention  to  him,  but  I  was 
wandering  in  a  garden  of  Eden  all  the  while,  with  Dora. 

My  apprehensions  of  being  disparaged  to  the  object  of  my  engrossing  affection 
were  revived  when  we  went  into  the  drawing-room,  by  the  grim  and  distant  aspect  of 
Miss  Murdstone.     But  I  was  relieved  of  them  in  an  unexpected  manner. 

'  David  Copperfield,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  beckoning  me  aside  into  a  window. 
'  A  word.' 

I  confronted  Miss  Murdstone  alone. 

'  David  Copperfield,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  '  I  need  not  enlarge  upon  family 
circumstances.     They  are  not  a  tempting  subject.' 

'  Far  from  it,  ma'am,'  I  returned. 

'  Far  from  it,'  assented  Miss  Murdstone.  '  I  do  not  wish  to  revive  the  memory 
of  past  differences,  or  of  past  outrages.  I  have  received  outrages  from  a  person — a 
female,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  for  the  credit  of  my  sex — who  is  not  to  be  mentioned  without 
scorn  and  disgust ;    and  therefore  I  would  rather  not  mention  her.' 

I  felt  very  fiery  on  my  aunt's  account  ;  but  I  said  it  would  certainly  be  better, 
if  Miss  Murdstone  pleased,  not  to  mention  her.  I  could  not  hear  her  disrespectfully 
mentioned,  I  added,  without  expressing  my  opinion  in  a  decided  tone. 

Miss  Murdstone  shut  her  eyes,  and  disdainfully  inclined  her  head  ;  then,  slowly 
opening  her  eyes,  resumed — 

'  David  Copperfield,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  disguise  the  fact,  that  I  formed  an 
unfavourable  opinion  of  you  in  your  childhood.  It  may  have  been  a  mistaken  one.  or 
you  may  have  ceased  to  justify  it.  That  is  not  in  question  between  us  now.  I  belong 
to  a  family  remarkable,  I  believe,  for  some  firmness  ;  and  I  am  not  the  creature  of 
circumstance  or  change.  I  may  have  my  opinion  of  you.  You  may  have  vour 
opinion  of  me.' 

I  inclined  my  head,  in  my  turn. 

'  But  it  is  not  necessary,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  '  that  these  opinions  should  come 
into  collision  here.     Under  existing  circumstances,  it  is  as  well  on  all  accounts  that 


254  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

they  should  not.  As  the  chances  of  life  have  brought  us  together  again,  and  may 
bring  us  together  on  other  occasions,  I  would  say,  let  us  meet  here  as  distant  acquaint- 
ances. Family  circumstances  are  a  sufficient  reason  for  our  only  meeting  on  that 
footing,  and  it  is  quite  unnecessary  that  either  of  us  should  make  the  other  the  subject 
of  remark.     Do  you  approve  of  this  ?  ' 

'  Miss  Murdstone,'  I  returned,  '  I  think  you  and  Mr.  Murdstone  used  me  very 
cruelly,  and  treated  my  mother  with  great  unkindness.  I  shall  always  think  so,  as 
long  as  I  live.     But  I  quite  agree  in  what  you  propose.' 

Miss  Murdstone  shut  her  eyes  again,  and  bent  her  head.  Then,  just  touching 
the  back  of  my  hand  vnth  the  tips  of  her  cold,  stiff  fingers,  she  walked  away,  arranging 
the  little  fetters  on  her  wrists  and  round  her  neck  :  which  seemed  to  be  the  same  set, 
in  exactly  the  same  state,  as  when  I  had  seen  her  last.  These  reminded  me,  in  reference 
to  Miss  Murdstone's  nature,  of  the  fetters  over  a  jail-door  ;  suggesting  on  the  outside, 
to  all  beholders,  what  was  to  be  expected  within. 

All  I  know  of  the  rest  of  the  evening  is,  that  I  heard  the  empress  of  my  heart 
sing  enchanted  ballads  in  the  French  language,  generally  to  the  effect  that,  whatever 
was  the  matter,  we  ought  always  to  dance,  Ta  ra  la,  Ta  ra  la  !  accompanying  herself 
on  a  glorified  instrument  resembling  a  guitar.  That  I  was  lost  in  blissful  delirium. 
That  I  refused  refreshment.  That  my  soul  recoiled  from  punch  particularly.  That 
when  Miss  Murdstone  took  her  into  custody  and  led  her  away,  she  smiled  and  gave  me 
her  delicious  hand.  That  I  caught  a  view  of  myself  in  a  mirror,  looking  perfectly 
imbecile  and  idiotic.  That  I  retired  to  bed  in  a  most  maudlin  state  of  mind,  and  got 
up  in  a  crisis  of  feeble  infatuation. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  and  early,  and  I  thought  I  would  go  and  take  a  stroll  down 
one  of  those  wire-arched  walks,  and  indulge  my  passion  by  dwelling  on  her  image. 
On  my  way  through  the  hall  I  encountered  her  little  dog,  who  was  called  Jip — short 
for  Gipsy.  I  approached  him  tenderly,  for  I  loved  even  him  ;  but  he  showed  his 
whole  set  of  teeth,  got  under  a  chair  expressly  to  snarl,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  the  least 
familiarity. 

The  garden  was  cool  and  solitary.  I  walked  about,  wondering  what  my  feelings 
of  happiness  would  be,  if  I  could  ever  become  engaged  to  this  dear  wonder.  As  to 
marriage,  and  fortune,  and  all  that,  I  believe  I  was  almost  as  innocently  im- 
designing  then,  as  when  I  loved  little  Em'ly.  To  be  allowed  to  call  her  '  Dora,' 
to  write  to  her,  to  dote  upon  and  worship  her,  to  have  reason  to  think  that 
when  she  was  with  other  people  she  was  yet  mindful  of  me,  seemed  to  me  the 
summit  of  human  ambition — I  am  sure  it  was  the  summit  of  mine.  There  is  no 
doubt  whatever  that  I  was  a  lackadaisical  young  spooney  ;  but  there  was  a  purity 
of  heart  in  all  this  still,  that  prevents  my  having  quite  a  contemptuous  recollection 
of  it,  let  me  laugh  as  I  may. 

I  had  not  been  walking  long,  when  I  turned  a  corner,  and  met  her.  I  tingle  again 
from  head  to  foot  as  my  recollection  turns  that  coi'ner,  and  my  pen  shakes  in  my  hand. 

'  You — are — out  early.  Miss  Spenlow,'  said  I. 

'  It 's  so  stupid  at  home,'  she  replied,  '  and  Miss  Murdstone  is  so  absurd  !  She 
talks  such  nonsense  about  its  being  necessary  for  the  day  to  be  aired,  before  I  come 
out.  Aired  !  '  (She  laughed,  here,  in  the  most  melodious  manner.)  '  On  a  Sunday 
morning,  when  I  don't  practise,  I  must  do  something.  So  I  told  papa  last  night  I 
must  come  out.  Besides,  it 's  the  brightest  time  of  the  whole  day.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  ' 


T  FALL  INTO  CAPTIVITY  255 

I  hazardctl  a  bold  IliKlit.  and  said  (not  without  stammerinjf)  that  it  was  very  hrij^ht 
to  me  then,  thoiif,'h  it  had  been  very  dark  to  me  a  minute  ticfore. 

'  Do  you  mean  a  compliment  ?  '  said  Dora,  '  or  that  the  weatfier  has 
really  changed  ?  ' 

I  stammered  worse  than  before,  in  replying  that  I  meant  no  compliment,  but  the 
plain  truth  ;  though  I  was  not  aware  of  any  change  having  taken  place  in  the  weather. 
It  was  in  the  state  of  my  own  feelings,  I  added  bashfully  :   to  clench  the  ex[)lanation. 

I  never  saw  such  curls — -how  could  I,  for  there  never  were  such  curls  ! — as  those 
she  shook  out  to  hide  her  blushes.  As  to  the  straw  hat  and  blue  ribbons  which  was 
on  the  top  of  the  curls,  if  I  could  only  have  hung  it  up  in  my  room  in  Huekingham 
Street,  what  a  priceless  possession  it  would  have  been  ! 

'  You  have  just  come  home  from  Paris,'  said  I. 

'  Yes,'  said  she.     '  Have  you  ever  been  there  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  Oh  !    I  hope  you  'II  go  soon  !     You  would  like  it  so  much  ! ' 

Traces  of  deep-seated  anguish  appeared  in  my  countenance.  That  she  should 
hope  I  would  go,  that  she  should  think  it  possible  I  could  go,  was  insupportable.  I 
depreciated  Paris  ;  I  depreciated  France.  I  said  I  wouldn't  leave  England,  under 
existing  circumstances,  for  any  earthly  consideration.  Nothing  should  induce  me. 
In  short,  she  was  shaking  the  curls  again,  when  the  little  dog  came  running  along  the 
walk  to  our  relief. 

He  was  mortally  jealous  of  me,  and  persisted  in  barking  at  me.  She  took  him 
up  in  her  arms — oh  ni}-  goodness  ! — and  caressed  him,  but  he  persisted  upon  barking 
still.  He  wouldn't  let  me  touch  him,  when  I  tried  ;  and  then  she  beat  him.  It 
increased  my  sufferings  greatly  to  see  the  pats  she  gave  him  for  punishment  on  the 
bridge  of  his  blunt  nose,  while  he  winked  his  eyes,  and  licked  her  hand,  and  still  growled 
within  himself  like  a  little  double-bass.  At  length  he  was  quiet— well  he  might  be 
with  her  dimpled  chin  upon  his  head  ! — and  we  walked  away  to  look  at  a  greenhouse. 

'  You  are  not  very  intimate  with  Miss  Murdstone,  are  you  ?  '  said  Dora.     '  My  pet.' 

(The  two  last  words  were  to  the  dog.     Oh  if  they  had  only  been  to  me  !) 

'  No,'  I  replied.     '  Not  at  all  so.' 

'  She  is  a  tiresome  creature,'  said  Dora,  pouting.  '  I  can't  think  what  papa  can 
have  been  about,  when  he  chose  such  a  vexatious  thing  to  be  my  companion.  Who 
wants  a  protector  ?  I  am  sure  /  don't  want  a  protector.  Jip  can  protect  me  a  great 
deal  better  than  Miss  Murdstone, — can't  you,  Jip,  dear  ?  ' 

He  only  winked  lazily,  when  she  kissed  his  ball  of  a  head. 

'  Papa  calls  her  my  confidential  friend,  but  I  am  sure  she  is  no  such  thing — is 
she,  Jip  ?  We  are  not  going  to  confide  in  anj^  such  cross  people,  Jip  and  I.  We  mean 
to  bestow  our  confidence  where  we  like,  and  to  find  out  our  own  friends,  instead  of 
having  them  found  out  for  us — don't  we,  Jip  ?  ' 

Jip  made  a  comfortable  noise,  in  answer,  a  little  like  a  tea-kettle  when  it  sings. 
As  for  me,  every  word  was  a  new  heap  of  fetters,  riveted  above  the  last. 

'  It  is  very  hard,  because  we  have  not  a  kind  mamma,  that  we  are  to  have,  instead, 
a  sulky,  gloomy  old  thing  like  Miss  Murdstone,  always  following  us  about — isn't  it, 
Jip  ?  Never  mind,  Jip.  We  won't  be  confidential,  and  we  '11  make  ourselves  as  happy 
as  we  can  in  spite  of  her,  and  we  '11  teaze  her,  and  not  please  her— won't  we,  Jip  ?  ' 

If  it  had  lasted  any  longer,  I  think  I  must  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  on  the 
gravel,  with  the  probability  before  me  of  grazing  them,  and  of  being  presently  ejected 


256  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

from  the  premises  besides.  But,  by  good  fortune  the  greenhouse  was  not  far  off, 
and  these  words  brought  us  to  it. 

It  contained  quite  a  show  of  beautiful  geraniums.  We  loitered  along  in  front  of 
them,  and  Dora  often  stopped  to  admire  this  one  or  that  one,  and  I  stopped  to  admire 
the  same  one,  and  Dora;  laugliing,  held  the  dog  up  childishly,  to  smell  the  flowers  ; 
and  if  we  were  not  all  three  in  Fairyland,  certainly  /  was.  The  scent  of  a  geranium 
leaf,  at  this  day,  strikes  me  with  a  half-comical,  half-serious  wonder  as  to  what  change 
has  come  over  me  in  a  moment ;  and  then  I  see  a  straw  hat  and  blue  ribbons,  and  a 
quantity  of  curls,  and  a  little  black  dog  being  held  up,  in  two  slender  arms,  against  a 
bank  of  blossoms  and  bright  leaves. 

Miss  Murdstone  had  been  looking  for  us.  She  found  us  here  ;  and  presented  her 
uncongenial  cheek,  the  little  wrinkles  in  it  filled  with  hair  powder,  to  Dora  to  be  kissed. 
Then  she  took  Dora's  arm  in  hers,  and  marched  us  in  to  breakfast  as  if  it  were  a 
soldier's  funeral. 

How  many  cups  of  tea  I  drank,  because  Dora  made  it,  I  don't  know.  But,  I 
perfectly  remember  that  I  sat  swilling  tea  until  my  whole  nervous  system,  if  I  had  had 
any  in  those  days,  must  have  gone  by  the  board.  By  and  by  we  went  to  church. 
Miss  Murdstone  was  between  Dora  and  me  in  the  pew  ;  but  I  heard  her  sing,  and  the 
congregation  vanished.  A  sermon  was  delivered — about  Dora,  of  course — and  I  am 
afraid  that  is  all  I  know  of  the  service. 

We  had  a  quiet  day.  No  company,  a  walk,  a  family  dinner  of  four,  and  an  evening 
of  looking  over  books  and  pictures  ;  Miss  Murdstone  with  a  homily  before  her,  and 
her  eye  upon  us,  keeping  guard  vigilantly.  Ah  !  little  did  Mr.  Spenlow  imagine,  when 
he  sat  opposite  to  me  after  dinner  that  day,  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  over  his 
head,  how  fervently  I  was  embracing  him,  in  my  fancy,  as  his  son-in-law  !  Little 
did  he  think,  when  I  took  leave  of  him  at  night,  that  he  had  just  given  his  full 
consent  to  my  being  engaged  to  Dora,  and  that  I  was  invoking  blessings  on  his  head  ! 

We  departed  early  in  the  morning,  for  we  had  a  salvage  case  coming  on  in  the 
Admiralty  Court,  requiring  a  rather  accurate  knowledge  of  the  whole  science  of 
navigation,  in  which  (as  we  couldn't  be  expected  to  know  much  about  those  matters 
in  the  Commons)  the  judge  had  entreated  two  old  Trinity  Masters,  for  charity's 
sake,  to  come  and  help  him  out.  Dora  was  at  the  breakfast-table  to  make  the  tea 
again,  however  ;  and  I  had  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  taking  off  my  hat  to  her  in 
the  phaeton,  as  she  stood  on  the  door-step  with  Jip  in  her  arms. 

What  the  Admiralty  was  to  me  that  day  ;  what  nonsense  I  made  of  our  case 
in  my  mind,  as  I  listened  to  it ;  how  I  saw  '  Dora  '  engraved  upon  the  blade  of  the 
silver  oar  which  they  lay  upon  the  table,  as  the  emblem  of  that  high  jurisdiction  ; 
and  how  I  felt  when  Mr.  Spenlow  went  home  without  me  (I  had  had  an  insane  hope 
that  he  might  take  me  back  again),  as  if  I  were  a  mariner  myself,  and  the  ship  to 
which  I  belonged  had  sailed  away  and  left  me  on  a  desert  island  ;  I  shall  make  no 
fruitless  effort  to  describe.  If  that  sleepy  old  Court  could  rouse  itself,  and  present  in 
any  visible  form  the  day-dreams  I  have  had  in  it  about  Dora,  it  would  reveal  my  truth. 

I  don't  mean  the  dreams  that  I  dreamed  on  that  day  alone,  but  day  after  day, 
from  week  to  week,  and  term  to  term.  I  went  there,  not  to  attend  to  what  was 
going  on,  but  to  think  about  Dora.  If  ever  I  bestowed  a  thought  upon  the  cases, 
as  they  dragged  their  slow  length  before  me,  it  was  only  to  wonder,  in  the  matri- 
monial cases  (remembering  Dora),  how  it  was  that  married  people  could  ever  be 
otherwise  than  happy  ;    and,  in  the  Prerogative  cases,  to  consider,  if  the  money  in 


THE   ELDEST   MISS   LARKIXS 

■  She  approaches  me— she,  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins !— and  asks  me  pleasantly, 
if  X  dunce  I 

'I  stammer,  with  a  bow,  'With  you,  Aliss  Larkins.'"  {Page  175) 


I  FALL  INTO  CAPTIVITY  257 

question  had  been  left  to  me,  what  were  the  foreniobt  steps  I  should  iiiunediately 
have  taken  in  regard  to  Dora.  Within  the  first  week  of  my  passion,  I  bou^'ht  four 
sumptuous  waistcoats — not  for  myself  ;  /  had  no  pride  in  them  ;  for  Dora — and 
took  to  wearing  straw-coloured  kid  gloves  in  the  streets,  and  laid  the  foundations 
of  all  the  corns  I  have  ever  had.  If  the  boots  I  wore  at  that  [)criod  could  only  be 
produced  and  compared  with  the  natural  size  of  my  feet,  they  would  show  what  the 
state  of  my  heart  was,  in  a  most  affecting  manner. 

And  yet,  wretched  crij>ple  as  I  made  myself  by  this  act  of  homage  to  Dora,  I 
walked  miles  upon  miles  daily  in  the  hope  of  seeing  her.  Not  only  was  I  soon  as 
well  known  on  the  Norwood  Road  as  the  postmen  on  that  beat,  but  I  [)ervadcd  London 
likewise.  I  walked  about  the  streets  where  the  best  shops  for  ladies  were,  I  haunted 
the  Bazaar  like  an  unquiet  spirit,  I  fagged  through  the  Park  again  and  again,  long 
after  I  was  quite  knocked  up.  Sometimes,  at  long  intervals  and  on  rare  occasions, 
I  saw  her.  Perhaps  I  saw  her  glove  waved  in  a  carriage-window  ;  perhaps  I  met  her, 
walked  with  her  and  Miss  Murdstone  a  little  way,  and  spoke  to  her.  In  the  latter 
case  I  was  always  very  miserable  afterwards,  to  think  that  I  had  said  nothing  to 
the  purpose  ;  or  that  she  had  no  idea  of  the  extent  of  my  devotion,  or  that  she 
cared  nothing  about  me.  I  was  always  looking  out,  as  may  be  supposed,  for  another 
invitation  to  Mr.  Spenlow's  house.     I  was  always  being  disapponited,  for  I  got  none. 

Mrs.  Crupp  must  have  been  a  woman  of  penetration  ;  for  when  this  attach- 
ment was  but  a  few  weeks  old,  and  I  had  not  had  the  courage  to  write  more  exj)licitly 
even  to  Agnes,  than  that  I  had  been  to  Mr.  Spenlow's  house,  '  whose  family,'  I 
added,  '  consists  of  one  daughter  '  ; — I  say  Mrs.  Crupp  must  have  been  a  woman  of 
penetration,  for,  even  in  that  early  stage,  she  found  it  out.  She  came  up  to  me  one 
evening,  when  I  was  very  low,  to  ask  (she  being  then  afflicted  with  the  disorder  I 
have  mentioned)  if  I  could  oblige  her  with  a  little  tincture  of  cardamums  mixed  with 
rhubarb,  and  flavoured  with  seven  drops  of  the  essence  of  cloves,  which  was  the  best 
remedy  for  her  complaint ; — or,  if  I  had  not  such  a  thing  by  me,  with  a  little  brandy, 
which  was  the  next  best.  It  was  not,  she  remarked,  so  palatable  to  her,  but  it  was  the 
the  next  best.  As  I  had  never  even  heard  of  the  first  remedy,  and  always  had  the 
second  in  the  closet,  I  gave  Mrs.  Crupp  a  glass  of  the  second,  which  (that  I  might  have  no 
suspicion  of  its  being  devoted  to  any  improper  use)  she  began  to  take  in  my  presence. 

'  Cheer  up,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Crupp.  '  I  can't  abear  to  see  you  so,  sir  :  I  'm  a 
mother  myself.' 

I  did  not  quite  perceive  the  application  of  this  fact  to  myself,  but  I  smiled  on 
Mrs.  Crupp,  as  benignly  as  was  in  my  power. 

'  Come,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Crupp.  '  Excuse  me.  I  know  what  it  is,  sir.  There  's 
a  lady  in  the  case.' 

'  Mrs.  Crupp  ?  '    I  returned,  reddening. 

'  Oh,  bless  you  !  Keep  a  good  heart,  sir  !  '  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  nodding  encourage- 
ment. '  Never  say  die,  Sir  !  If  She  don't  smile  upon  you,  there  's  a  many  as  will. 
You  're  a  young  gentleman  to  be  smiled  on,  Mr.  Copperfull,  and  you  must  learn 
your  walue,  sir.' 

Mrs.  Crupp  always  called  me  Mr.  Copperfull  :  firstly,  no  doubt,  because  it  was 
not  my  name  ;  and  secondly,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  in  some  indistinct  association 
with  a  washing-day. 

'  What  makes  you  suppose  there  is  any  young  lady  in  the  case,  Mrs.  Crupp  ?  ' 
said  I. 

I 


258  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Mr.  Copperfull,'  said  ]\Irs.  Crupp,  with  a  great  deal  of  feeling,  '  I  'm  a  mother 
myself.' 

For  some  time  Mrs.  Crupp  could  only  lay  her  hand  upon  her  nankeen  bosom, 
and  fortify  herself  against  returning  pain  with  sips  of  her  medicine.  At  length  she 
spoke  again. 

'  When  the  present  set  were  took  for  you  by  your  dear  aunt,  Mr.  Copperfull,' 
said  Mrs.  Crupp,  '  my  remark  were,  I  had  now  found  summun  I  could  care  for. 
"  Thank  Ev'in  !  "  were  the  expression,  "  I  have  now  found  summun  I  can  care  for  !  " 
— You  don't  eat  enough,  sir,  nor  yet  drink.' 

'  Is  that  what  you  found  your  supposition  on,  Mrs.  Crupp  ?  '  said  I. 

'  Sir,'  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  in  a  tone  approaching  to  severity,  '  I  've  laundressed 
other  young  gentlemen  besides  yourself.  A  young  gentleman  may  be  over-careful  of 
himself,  or  he  may  be  under-careful  of  himself.  He  may  brush  his  hair  too  regular, 
or  too  unregular.  He  may  wear  his  boots  much  too  large  for  him,  or  much  too  small. 
That  is  according  as  the  young  gentleman  has  his  original  character  formed.  But 
let  him  go  to  which  extreme  he  may,  sir,  there  's  a  young  lady  in  both  of  'em.' 

Mrs.  Crupp  shook  her  head  in  such  a  determined  manner,  that  I  had  not  an 
inch  of  'vantage-ground  left. 

'  It  was  but  the  gentleman  which  died  here  before  yourself,'  said  Mrs.  Crupp, 
'  that  fell  in  love — with  a  barmaid — and  had  his  waistcoats  took  in  directly,  though 
much  swelled  by  drinking.' 

'  Mrs.  Crupp,'  said  I,  '  I  must  beg  you  not  to  connect  the  young  lady  in  my  case 
with  a  barmaid,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  if  you  please.' 

'  Mr.  Copperfull,'  returned  Mrs.  Crupp,  '  I  'm  a  mother  myself,  and  not  likely. 
I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,  if  I  intrude.  I  should  never  wish  to  intrude  where  I  were  not 
welcome.  But  you  are  a  young  gentleman,  Mr.  Copperfull,  and  my  adwice  to  you 
is,  to  cheer  up,  sir,  to  keep  a  good  heart,  and  to  know  your  own  walue.  If  you  was 
to  take  to  something,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Crupp,  '  if  you  was  to  take  to  skittles,  now,  which 
is  healthy,  you  may  find  it  divert  your  mind,  and  do  you  good.' 

With  these  words,  Mrs.  Crupp,  affecting  to  be  very  careful  of  the  brandy — 
which  was  all  gone — thanked  me  with  a  majestic  curtesy,  and  retired.  As  her  figure 
disappeared  into  the  gloom  of  the  entry,  this  counsel  certainly  presented  itself  to  my 
mind  in  the  light  of  a  slight  liberty  on  Mrs.  Crupp's  part ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  I 
was  content  to  receieve  it,  in  another  point  of  view,  as  a  word  to  the  wise,  and  a 
warning  in  future  to  keep  my  secret  better. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

TOMMY    TRADDLES 

IT  may  have  been  in  consequence  of  Mrs.  Crupp's  advice,  and,  perhaps,  for  no 
better  reason  than  because  there  was  a  certain  similarity  in  the  sound  of  the 
word  skittles  and  Traddles,  that  it  came  into  my  head,  next  day,  to  go  and 
look  after  Traddles.  The  time  he  had  mentioned  was  more  than  out,  and  he 
lived  in  a  little  street  near  the  Veterinary  College  at  Camden  Town,  which  was 
principally  tenanted,  as  one  of  ovu*  clerks  who  lived  in  that  direction  informed  me, 


TOMMY  TRADDLES  259 

by  gentlemen  students,  who  Ixjuglit  live  donkeys,  and  made  experiments  on  those 
quadrupeds  in  their  private  apartments.  Having  obtained  from  this  elerk  a  direction 
to  the  academic  grove  in  question,  I  set  out,  the  same  afternoon,  to  visit  my  old 
schoolfellow. 

I  found  that  the  street  was  not  as  desirable  a  one  as  I  could  have  wished  it  to 
be,  for  the  sake  of  Truddles.  The  inhabitants  appeared  to  have  a  propensity  to 
throw  any  little  trifles  they  were  not  in  want  of,  into  the  road  :  which  not  only  made 
it  rank  and  sloppy,  but  untidy  too,  on  account  of  the  cabbuge-leavcs.  The  refuse 
was  not  wholly  vegetable  either  for  I  myself  saw  a  shoe,  a  doubled-up  saucepan,  a 
black  bonnet,  and  an  umljrella,  in  various  stages  of  decomposition,  as  I  was  looking 
out  for  the  number  I  wanted. 

The  general  air  of  the  place  reminded  me  forcibly  of  the  days  when  I  lived  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber.  An  indescribable  character  of  faded  gentility  that  attached 
to  the  house  I  sought,  and  made  it  unlike  all  the  other  houses  in  the  street — though 
they  were  all  built  on  one  monotonous  pattern,  and  looked  like  the  early  copies 
of  a  blundering  boy  who  was  learning  to  make  houses,  and  had  not  yet  got  out  of 
his  cramped  brick-and-mortar  pothooks — reminded  me  still  more  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Micawber.  Happening  to  arrive  at  the  door  as  it  was  opened  to  the  afternoon 
milkman,  I  was  reminded  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  more  forcibly  yet. 

'  Now,'  said  the  milkman  to  a  very  youthful  servant-girl.  '  Has  that  there 
little  bill  of  mine  been  heerd  on  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  master  says  he  '11  attend  to  it  immediate,'  was  the  reply. 

'  Because,'  said  the  milkman,  going  on  as  if  he  had  received  no  answer,  and 
speaking,  as  I  judged  from  his  tone,  rather  for  the  edification  of  somebody  within  the 
house,  than  of  the  youthful  servant— an  impression  which  was  strengthened  by  his 
manner  of  glaring  down  the  passage—'  because  that  there  little  bill  has  been  running 
so  long,  that  I  begin  to  believe  it 's  run  away  altogether,  and  never  won't  be  heerd 
of.  Now,  I  'm  not  a  going  to  stand  it,  you  know  !  '  said  the  milkman,  still  throwing 
his  voice  into  the  house,  and  glaring  down  the  passage. 

As  to  his  dealing  in  the  mild  article  of  milk,  by  the  bye,  there  never  was  a 
greater  anomaly.  His  deportment  would  have  been  fierce  in  a  butcher  or  a  brandy- 
merchant. 

The  voice  of  the  youthful  servant  became  faint,  but  she  seemed  to  me,  from  the 
action  of  her  lips,  again  to  murmur  that  it  would  be  attended  to  immediate. 

'  I  tell  you  what,'  said  the  milkman,  looking  hard  at  her  for  the  first  time,  and 
taking  her  by  the  chin,  '  are  you  fond  of  milk  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  likes  it,'  she  replied. 

'  Good,'  said  the  milkman.  '  Then  you  won't  have  none  to-morrow.  D'  ye 
hear  ?     Not  a  fragment  of  milk  you  won't  have  to-morrow.' 

I  thought  she  seemed,  upon  the  whole,  relieved,  by  the  prospect  of  having  any 
to-day.  The  milkman,  after  shaking  his  head  at  her,  darkly,  released  her  chin, 
and  with  anything  rather  than  good-will  opened  his  can,  and  deposited  the  usual 
quantity  in  the  family  jug.  This  done,  he  went  away,  muttering,  and  uttered  the  cry 
of  his  trade  next  door,  in  a  vindictive  shriek. 

'  Does  Mr.  Traddles  live  here  ?  '   I  then  inquired. 

A  mysetrious  voice  from  the  end  of  the  passage  replied  '  Yes,'  Upon  which  the 
youthful  servant  replied  '  Yes.' 

'  Is  he  at  home  ?  '  said  I. 


260  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Again  the  mysterious  voice  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  again  the  servant 
echoed  it.  Upon  this,  I  walked  in,  and  in  pursuance  of  the  servant's  directions 
walked  upstairs  ;  conscious,  as  I  passed  the  back  parlour-door,  that  I  was  surveyed 
by  a  mysterious  eye,  probably  belonging  to  the  mysterious  voice. 

When  I  got  to  the  top  of  the  stairs — the  house  was  only  a  story  high  above  the 
ground  floor — Traddles  was  on  the  landing  to  meet  me.  He  was  delighted  to  see  me, 
and  gave  me  welcome,  with  great  heartiness,  to  his  little  room.  It  was  in  the  front  of 
the  house,  and  extremely  neat,  though  sparely  furnished.  It  was  his  only  room,  I 
saw  ;  for  there  was  a  sofa-bedstead  in  it,  and  his  blacking-brushes  and  blacking  were 
among  his  books — on  the  top  shelf,  behind  a  dictionary.  His  table  was  covered 
with  papers,  and  he  was  hard  at  work  in  an  old  coat.  I  looked  at  nothing,  that  I 
know  of,  but  I  saw  everything,  even  to  the  prospect  of  a  church  upon  his  china  ink- 
stand, as  I  sat  down — and  this,  too,  was  a  faculty  confirmed  in  me  in  the  old  Micawber 
times.  Various  ingenious  arrangements  he  had  made,  for  the  disguise  of  his  chest 
of  drawers,  and  the  accommodation  of  his  boots,  his  shaving-glass,  and  so  forth, 
particularly  impressed  themselves  upon  me,  as  evidences  of  the  same  Traddles  who 
used  to  make  models  of  elephants'  dens  in  writing-paper  to  put  flies  in  ;  and  to 
comfort  himself  under  ill-usage,  with  the  memorable  works  of  art  I  have  so  often 
mentioned. 

In  a  corner  of  the  room  was  something  neatly  covered  up  with  a  large  white 
cloth.     I  could  not  make  out  what  that  was. 

'  Traddles,'  said  I,  shaking  hands  with  him  again,  after  I  had  sat  down,  '  I  am 
delighted  to  see  you.' 

'  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  Copperfield,'  he  returned.  '  I  am  very  glad  indeed  to 
see  you.  It  was  because  I  was  thoroughly  glad  to  see  you  when  we  met  in  Ely  Place, 
and  was  sure  you  were  thoroughh'  glad  to  see  me,  that  I  gave  you  this  address  instead 
of  my  address  at  chambers.' 

'  Oh  !     You  have  chambers  ?  '    said  I. 

'  \^1ly,  I  have  the  fourth  of  a  room  and  a  passage,  and  the  fourth  of  a  clerk,' 
returned  Traddles.  '  Three  others  and  myself  unite  to  have  a  set  of  chambers — to 
look  business-like — and  we  quarter  the  clerk  too.     Half-a-crown  a  week  he  costs  me.' 

His  old  simple  character  and  good-temper,  and  something  of  his  old  unlucky 
fortune  also,  I  thought,  smiled  at  me  in  the  smile  with  which  he  made  this  explanation. 

'  It 's  not  because  I  have  the  least  pride,  Copperfield,  you  understand,'  said 
Traddles,  '  that  I  don't  usually  give  my  address  here.  It 's  only  no  account  of  those 
who  come  to  me,  who  might  not  like  to  come  here.  For  myself,  I  am  fighting  my  way 
on  in  the  world  against  difficulties,  and  it  would  be  ridiculous  if  I  made  a  pretence 
of  doing  anything  else.' 

'  You  are  reading  for  the  bar.  Mr.  Waterbrook  informed  me  ?  '   said  I. 

'  Why,  yes,'  said  Traddles,  rubbing  his  hands,  slowly  over  one  another,  '  I  am 
reading  for  the  bar.  The  fact  is,  I  have  just  begun  to  keep  my  terms,  after  rather  a 
long  delay.  It 's  some  time  since  I  was  articled,  but  the  payment  of  that  hundred 
pounds  was  a  great  pull.  A  great  pull  !  '  said  Traddles,  with  a  wince,  as  if  he  had 
had  a  tooth  out. 

'  Do  you  know  what  I  can't  help  thinking  of,  Traddles,  as  I  sit  here  looking  at 
you  ?  '  I  asked  him. 

'  No,'  said  he. 

'  That  sky-blue  suit  you  used  to  wear.' 


TOMMY  TK ADDLES  -jej 

'  Lord,  to  be  sure  !  '  cried  Traddles,  laughinj,'.  '  Tight  in  the  arms  and  legs, 
you  know  ?     Dear  me  !     Well  !     Those  were  happy  times,  weren't  they  ?  ' 

'  I  think  our  schoolmaster  might  have  made  them  happier,  without  doing  any 
harm  to  any  of  us,  I  acknowledge,'  I  returned. 

'  Perhaps  he  might,'  said  Traddles.  '  liut  dear  me,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  fun 
going  on.  Do  you  remember  the  nights  in  the  bedroom  ?  When  we  used  to  have 
the  suppers  ?  And  when  you  used  to  tell  the  stories  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  And  do  you 
remember  when  1  got  caned  for  crying  about  Mr.  Mell  ?  Old  C'rcakle  !  I  should 
hke  to  see  him  again,  too  !  ' 

'  He  Avas  a  brute  to  you,  Traddles,'  said  I,  indignantly  ;  for  his  good-humour 
made  me  feel  as  if  I  had  seen  him  beaten  but  yesterday. 

'  Do  you  think  so  ?  '  returned  Traddles.  '  Really  ?  Perhaps  he  was,  rather. 
But  it 's  all  over,  a  long  while.     Old  Creakle  !  ' 

'  You  were  brought  up  by  an  uncle,  then  ?  '   said  I. 

'  Of  course  I  was  !  '  said  Traddles.  '  The  one  I  was  always  going  to  write  to. 
And  always  didn't,  eh  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Yes,  I  had  an  uncle  then.  He  died  soon  after 
I  left  school.' 

'  Indeed  !  ' 

'  Yes.  He  was  a  retired — what  do  you  call  it  ? — draper — cloth-merchant — and 
had  made  me  his  heir.     But  he  didn't  like  me  when  I  grew  up.' 

'  Do  you  really  mean  that  ?  '  said  I.  He  was  so  composed,  that  I  fancied  he 
must  have  some  other  meaning. 

'  Oh  dear  yes,  Copperfield  !  I  mean  it,'  replied  Traddles.  '  It  was  an  unfor- 
tunate thing,  but  he  didn't  like  me  at  all.  He  said  I  wasn't  at  all  what  he  expected, 
and  so  he  married  his  housekeeper. 

'  And  what  did  you  do  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  I  didn't  do  anything  in  particular,'  said  Traddles.  '  I  lived  with  them,  waiting 
to  be  put  out  in  the  world,  until  his  gout  unfortunately  flew  to  his  stomach — and  so 
he  died,  and  so  she  married  a  young  man,  and  so  I  wasn't  provided  for.' 

'  Did  you  get  nothing,  Traddles,  after  all  ?  ' 

'  Oh  dear  yes  !  '  said  Traddles.  '  I  got  fifty  pounds.  I  had  never  been  brought 
up  to  any  profession,  and  at  first  I  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do  for  myself.  However, 
I  began,  with  the  assistance  of  a  son  of  a  professional  man,  who  had  been  to  Salem 
House- — Yawler,  with  his  nose  on  one  side.     Do  you  recollect  him  ?  ' 

No.     He  had  not  been  there  with  me  ;   all  the  noses  were  straight  in  my  day. 

'  It  don't  matter,'  said  Traddles.  '  I  began,  by  means  of  his  assistance,  to  copy 
law  writings.  That  didn't  answer  very  well  ;  and  then  I  began  to  state  cases  for 
them,  and  make  abstracts,  and  do  that  sort  of  work.  For  I  am  a  plodding  kind  of 
fellow,  Copperfield,  and  had  learnt  the  way  of  doing  such  things  pithily.  Well ! 
That  put  it  in  my  head  to  enter  myself  as  a  law  student :  and  that  ran  away  with 
all  that  was  left  of  the  fifty  pounds.  Yawler  recommended  me  to  one  or  two  other 
offices,  however — Mr.  Waterbrook's  for  one — and  I  got  a  good  many  jobs.  I  was 
fortunate  enough,  too,  to  become  acquainted  with  a  person  in  the  publishing  way, 
who  was  getting  up  an  Encyclopaedia,  and  he  set  me  to  work  ;  and,  indeed  '  (glancing 
at  his  table),  '  I  am  at  work  for  him  at  this  minute.  I  am  not  a  bad  compiler, 
Copperfield,'  said  Traddles,  preser\nng  the  same  air  of  cheerful  confidence  in  all  he 
said,  '  but  I  have  no  invention  at  all  ;  not  a  particle.  I  suppose  there  never  was  a 
young  man  with  less  originality  than  I  have.' 


262  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

As  Traddles  seemed  to  expect  that  I  should  assent  to  this  as  a  matter  of  course, 
I  nodded  ;  and  he  went  on,  with  the  same  sprightly  patience — I  can  find  no  better 
expression — as  before. 

'  So,  by  little  and  little,  and  not  living  high,  I  managed  to  scrape  up  the  hundred 
pounds  at  last,'  said  Traddles  ;  '  and  thank  Heaven  that 's  paid — though  it  was — 
though  it  certainly  was,'  said  Traddles,  wincing  again  as  if  he  had  had  another  tooth 
out,  '  a  pull.  I  am  living  by  the  sort  of  work  I  have  mentioned,  still,  and  I  hope, 
one  of  these  days,  to  get  connected  with  some  newspaper  :  which  would  almost  be  the 
making  of  my  fortune.  Now,  Copperfield,  you  are  so  exactly  what  you  used  to  be, 
with  that  agreeable  face,  and  it 's  so  pleasant  to  see  you,  that  I  shan't  conceal  any- 
thing.    Therefore  you  must  know  that  I  am  engaged.' 

Engaged  !     Oh  Dora  ! 

'  She  is  a  curate's  daughter,'  said  Traddles  ;  '  one  of  ten,  down  in  Devonshire. 
Yes  !  '  For  he  saw  me  glance,  involuntarily,  at  the  prospect  on  the  inkstand. 
'  That 's  the  church  !  You  come  round  here,  to  the  left,  out  of  this  gate,'  tracing 
his  finger  along  the  inkstand,  '  and  exactly  where  I  hold  this  pen,  there  stands  the 
house — facing,  you  imderstand,  towards  the  church.' 

The  delight  with  which  he  entered  into  these  particulars,  did  not  fully  present 
itself  to  me  until  afterwards  ;  for  my  selfish  thoughts  were  making  a  ground-plan  of 
Mr.  Spenlow's  house  and  garden  at  the  same  moment. 

'  She  is  such  a  dear  girl  !  '  said  Traddles  ;  '  a  little  older  than  me,  but  the  dearest 
girl  I  I  told  you  I  was  going  out  of  town  ?  I  have  been  down  there.  I  walked  there, 
and  I  walked  back,  and  I  had  the  most  delightful  time  !  I  dare  say  ours  is  likely  to 
be  a  rather  long  engagement,  but  our  motto  is  "  Wait  and  hope  !  "  We  always  say 
that.  "  Wait  and  hope,"  we  always  say.  And  she  would  wait,  Copperfield,  till  she 
was  sixty — any  age  you  can  mention — for  me  !  ' 

Traddles  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  with  a  triumphant  smile,  put  his  hand  upon 
the  white  cloth  I  had  observed. 

'  However,'  he  said  ;  '  it 's  not  that  we  haven't  made  a  beginning  towards  house- 
keeping. No,  no  ;  we  have  begun.  We  must  get  on  by  degrees,  but  we  have  begun. 
Here,'  drawing  the  cloth  off  with  great  pride  and  care,  '  are  two  pieces  of  furniture  to 
commence  with.  This  flower-pot  and  stand,  she  bought  herself.  You  put  that  in  a 
parlour-window,'  said  Traddles,  falling  a  little  back  from  it  to  survey  it  with  the  greater 
admiration,  '  with  a  plant  in  it,  and — and  there  you  are  !  This  little  round  table 
with  the  marble  top  (it 's  two  feet  ten  in  circumference),  I  bought.  You  want  to  lay 
a  book  down,  you  know,  or  somebody  comes  to  see  you  or  your  wife,  and  wants  a  place 
to  stand  a  cup  of  tea  upon,  and — and  there  you  are  again  !  '  said  Traddles.  '  It 's 
an  admirable  piece  of  workmanship — firm  as  a  rock  !  ' 

I  praised  them  both,  highly,  and  Traddles  replaced  the  covering  as  carefully  as  he 
had  removed  it. 

'  It 's  not  a  great  deal  towards  the  furnishing,'  said  Traddles,  '  but  it 's  something. 
The  table-cloths,  and  pillow-cases,  and  articles  of  that  kind,  are  what  discourage  me 
most,  Copperfield.  So  does  the  ironmonger}' — candle-boxes,  and  gridirons,  and  that 
sort  of  necessaries — because  those  things  tell,  and  mount  up.  However,  "  wait  and 
hope  !  "     And  I  assure  you  she  's  the  dearest  girl  !  ' 

'  I  am  quite  certain  of  it,'  said  I. 

'  In  the  meantime,'  said  Traddles,  coming  back  to  his  chair  ;  '  and  this  is  the 
end  of  my  prosing  about  myself,  I  get  on  as  well  as  I  can.     I  don't  make  much,  but  I 


TOMMY  TRADDLES  2i;:i 

don't  spend  much.  In  K<^nenil,  I  kxr.ird  with  the  people  downstairs,  who  are  very 
agreeable  peo[)le  indeed.  Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  Ufe, 
and  are  excellent  company.' 

'  My  dear  Traddlcs  !  '  I  quickly  exclaimed.     '  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  ' 

Traddles  looked  at  me,  as  if  he  wondered  what  /  was  talking  al)Out. 

'  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  !  '  I  repeated.  '  Why,  I  am  intimately  acquainted 
with  them  I  ' 

An  opportune  double-knock  at  the  door,  which  I  knew  well  from  old  experience 
in  Windsor  Terrace,  and  which  nobody  but  Mr.  Micawber  could  ever  have  knocked 
at  that  door,  resolved  any  doubt  in  my  mind  as  to  their  being  my  old  friends.  I 
begged  Traddles  to  ask  his  landlord  to  walk  up.  Traddles  accordingly  did  so,  over 
the  banister  ;  and  Mr.  Micawber,  not  a  bit  changed — his  tights,  his  stick,  his  shirt- 
collar,  and  his  eye-glass,  all  the  same  as  ever — came  into  the  room  with  a  genteel  and 
youthful  air. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Traddles,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  the  old  roll  in  his 
voice,  as  he  checked  himself  in  humming  a  soft  tune.  '  I  was  not  aware  that  there 
was  any  individual,  alien  to  this  tenement,  in  your  sanctum.' 

Mr.  Micawber  slightly  bowed  to  me,  and  pulled  up  his  shirt-collar. 

'  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Micawber  ?  '  said  I. 

'  Sir,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  you  are  exceedingly  obliging.     I  am  in  statu  quo.' 

'  And  Mrs.  Micawber  ?  '  I  pursued. 

'  Sir,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  she  is  also,  thank  God,  in  statu  quo.' 

'  And  the  children,  Mr.  Micawber  ?  ' 

'  Sir,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  I  rejoice  to  reply  that  they  are,  likewise,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  salubrity.' 

All  this  time,  Mr.  Micawber  had  not  known  me  in  the  least,  though  he  had  stood 
face  to  face  with  me.  But  now,  seeing  me  smile,  he  examined  my  features  with  more 
attention,  fell  back,  cried,  '  Is  it  possible  ?  Have  I  the  pleasure  of  again  beholding 
Copperfield  ?  '  and  shook  me  by  both  hands  with  the  utmost  fervour. 

'  Good  Heaven,  Mr.  Traddles  !  '  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  to  think  that  I  should  find 
you  acquainted  with  the  friend  of  my  youth,  the  companion  of  earlier  days  !  My 
dear  !  '  calling  over  the  banisters  to  Mrs.  Micawber,  while  Traddles  looked  (with  reason) 
not  a  little  amazed  at  this  description  of  me.  '  Here  is  a  gentleman  in  Mr.  Traddles's 
apartment,  whom  he  wishes  to  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  to  you,  my  love  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  immediately  reappeared,  and  shook  hands  with  me  again. 

'  And  how  is  our  good  friend  the  Doctor,  Copperfield  ?  '  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  and 
all  the  circle  at  Canterbury  ?  ' 

'  I  have  none  but  good  accounts  of  them,'  said  I. 

'  I  am  most  delighted  to  hear  it,'  said  Mr.  Micawber.  '  It  was  at  Canterbury 
where  we  last  met.  Within  the  shadow,  I  may  figuratively  say,  of  that  religious 
edifice,  immortalised  by  Chaucer,  which  was  anciently  the  resort  of  pilgrims  from  the 
remotest  corners  of — in  short,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood 
of  the  cathedral.' 

I  replied  that  it  was.  Mr.  Micawber  continued  talking  as  volubly  as  he  could  ; 
but  not,  I  thought,  without  showing,  by  some  marks  of  concern  in  his  countenance, 
that  he  was  sensible  of  sounds  in  the  next  room,  as  of  Mrs.  Micawber  washing  her 
hands,  and  hurriedly  opening  and  shutting  drawers  that  were  uneasy  in  their  action. 

'  You  find  us,  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  one  eye  on  Traddles.  '  at 


264  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

present  established,  on  what  ma)'  be  designated  as  a  small  and  unassuming  scale ; 
but,  you  are  aware  that  I  have,  in  the  course  of  my  career,  surmounted  difficulties, 
and  conquered  obstacles.  You  are  no  stranger  to  the  fact,  that  there  have  been  periods 
of  my  life,  when  it  has  been  requisite  that  I  should  pause,  until  certain  expected  events 
should  turn  up  ;  when  it  has  been  necessary  that  I  should  fall  back,  before  making 
what  I  trust  I  shall  not  be  accused  of  presumption  in  terming — a  spring.  The  present 
is  one  of  those  momentous  stages  in  the  life  of  man.  You  find  me,  fallen  back,  for  a 
spring ;  and  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  a  vigorous  leap  will  shortly  be  the 
result.' 

I  was  expressing  my  satisfaction,  when  Mrs.  Micawber  came  in  ;  a  little  more 
slatternly  than  she  used  to  be,  or  so  she  seemed  now,  to  my  unaccustomed  eyes,  but 
still  with  some  preparation  of  herself  for  company,  and  with  a  pair  of  brown  gloves  on. 

'  My  dear,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  leading  her  towards  me.  '  Here  is  a  gentleman  of 
the  name  of  Copperfield,  who  wishes  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  you.' 

It  would  have  been  better,  as  it  turned  out,  to  have  led  gently  up  to  his  announce- 
ment, for  Mrs.  Micawber,  being  in  a  delicate  state  of  health,  was  overcome  by  it,  and 
was  taken  so  unwell,  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  obliged,  in  great  trepidation,  to  run  down 
to  the  water-butt  in  the  back-yard,  and  draw  a  basinful  to  lave  her  brow  with.  She 
presently  revived,  however,  and  was  really  pleased  to  see  me.  We  had  half  an  hour's 
talk,  all  together  ;  and  I  asked  her  about  the  twins,  who,  she  said,  were  '  grown  great 
creatures  '  ;  and  after  Master  and  Miss  Micawber,  whom  she  described  as  '  absolute 
giants,'  but  they  were  not  produced  on  that  occasion. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  very  anxious  that  I  should  stay  to  dinner.  I  should  not  have 
been  averse  to  do  so,  but  that  I  imagined  I  detected  trouble,  and  calculation  relative 
to  the  extent  of  the  cold  meat,  in  l\Irs.  Micawber's  eye.  I  therefore  pleaded  another 
engagement ;  and  observing  that  Mrs.  Micawber's  spirits  were  immediately  lightened, 
I  resisted  all  persuasion  to  forego  it. 

But  I  told  Traddles,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber,  that  before  I  could  think  of 
leaving,  they  must  appoint  a  day  when  they  would  come  and  dine  with  me.  The 
occupations  to  which  Traddles  stood  pledged,  rendered  it  necessary  to  fix  a  somewhat 
distant  one  ;  but  an  appointment  was  made  for  the  purpose,  that  suited  us  all,  and  then 
I  took  my  leave. 

Mr.  Micawber,  under  pretence  of  showing  me  a  nearer  way  than  that  by  which  I 
had  come,  accompanied  me  to  the  corner  of  the  street ;  being  anxious  (he  explained 
to  me)  to  say  a  few  words  to  an  old  friend,  in  confidence. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  to  have 
beneath  our  roof,  under  existing  circumstances,  a  mind  like  that  which  gleams — if 
I  may  be  allowed  the  expression — -which  gleams — in  your  friend  Traddles,  is  an 
unspeakable  comfort.  With  a  washerwoman,  who  exposes  hard-bake  for  sale  in  her 
parlour-window,  dwelling  next  door,  and  a  Bow-street  officer  residing  over  the  way, 
you  may  imagine  that  his  society  is  a  source  of  consolation  to  myeslf  and  to  Mrs. 
Micawber.  I  am  at  present,  my  dear  Copperfield,  engaged  in  the  sale  of  corn  upon 
commission.  It  is  not  an  avocation  of  a  remunerative  description — in  other  words,  it 
does  not  pay — and  some  temporary  embarrassments  of  a  pecuniary  nature  have  been 
the  consequence.  I  am,  however,  delighted  to  add  that  I  have  now  an  immediate 
prospect  of  something  turning  up  (I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  in  what  direction),  which 
I  trust  will  enable  me  to  provide,  permanently,  both  for  myself  and  for  your  friend 
Traddles,  in  whom  I  have  an  unaffected  interest.     You  may,  perhaps,  be  prepared 


MR.  MICAWBER'S  GAUNTLET  265 

to  hear  that  Mrs.  Micawber  is  in  a  state  of  health  which  renders  it  not  wholly  improhaljle 
that  an  addition  may  be  ultimately  made  to  those  pledges  of  affection  which — in  short, 
to  the  infantine  group.  Mrs.  Micawhcr's  family  have  been  so  good  as  to  express  their 
dissatisfaction  at  this  state  of  things.  I  have  merely  to  observe,  that  I  am  not  aware 
it  is  any  business  of  theirs,  and  that  I  repel  that  exbil)iti<ni  of  feeling  with  scorn,  and 
with  defiance  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  then  shook  hands  with  me  again,  and  left  me. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

MK.    MICAWBEK's    gauntlet 

UNTIL  the  day  arrived  on  which  I  was  to  entertain  my  newly-found  old 
friends,  I  lived  principally  on  Dora  and  coffee.  In  my  love-lorn  con- 
dition, my  appetite  languished  ;  and  I  was  glad  of  it,  for  I  felt  as 
though  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  perfidy  towards  Dora  to  have  a 
natural  relish  for  my  dinner.  The  quantity  of  walking  exercise  I  took,  was  not  in 
this  respect  attended  with  its  usual  consequence,  as  the  disappointment  counter- 
acted the  fresh  air.  I  have  my  doubts,  too,  founded  on  the  acute  experience  acquired 
at  this  period  of  my  life,  whether  a  sound  enjoyment  of  animal  food  can  develop  itself 
freely  in  any  human  subject  who  is  always  in  torment  from  tight  boots.  I  think 
the  extremities  require  to  Ijc  at  peace  before  the  stomach  will  conduct  itself  with 
vigour. 

On  the  occasion  of  this  domestic  httle  party,  I  did  not  repeat  my  former  exten- 
sive preparations.  I  merely  provided  a  pair  of  soles,  a  small  leg  of  mutton,  and  a 
pigeon-pie.  Mrs.  Crupp  broke  out  into  rebellion  on  my  first  bashful  hint  in  reference 
to  the  cooking  of  the  fish  and  joint,  and  said,  with  a  dignified  sense  of  injury,  '  No  ! 
No,  sir  !  You  will  not  ask  me  sich  a  thing,  for  you  are  better  acquainted  with  me 
than  to  suppose  me  capable  of  doing  what  I  cannot  do  with  ampial  satisfaction  to 
my  own  feelings  !  '  But,  in  the  end,  a  compromise  was  effected  ;  and  Mrs.  Crupp 
consented  to  achieve  this  feat,  on  condition  that  I  dined  from  home  for  a  fortnight 
afterwards. 

And  here  I  may  remark,  that  what  I  imderwent  from  Mrs.  Crupp,  in  consequence 
of  the  tyranny  she  established  over  me,  was  dreadful.  I  never  was  so  much  afraid  of 
any  one.  We  made  a  compromise  of  everything.  If  I  hesitated,  she  was  taken  with 
that  wonderful  disorder  which  was  always  lying  in  ambush  in  her  system,  ready,  at 
the  shortest  notice,  to  prey  upon  her  vitals.  If  I  rang  the  bell  impatiently,  after 
half  a  dozen  unavailing  modest  pulls,  and  she  appeared  at  last — which  was  not  by  anv 
means  to  be  relied  upon— she  would  appear  with  a  reproachful  aspect,  sink  breathless 
on  a  chair  near  the  door,  lay  her  hand  upon  her  nankeen  bosom,  and  become  so  ill. 
that  I  was  glad,  at  any  sacrifice  of  brandy  or  anything  else,  to  get  rid  of  her.  If  I 
objected  to  having  my  bed  made  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — which  I  do  still 
think  an  uncomfortable  arrangement — one  motion  of  her  hand  towards  the  same 
nankeen  region  of  wounded  sensibility  was  enough  to  make  me  falter  an  apology. 
In  short,  I  would  have  done  anything  in  an  honourable  way  rather  than  give  Mrs. 
Crupp  offence  ;   and  she  was  the  terror  of  my  life. 

i2 


266  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  bought  a  second-hand  dumb-waiter  for  this  dinner-party,  in  preference  to 
re-engaging  the  handy  young  man  ;  against  whom  I  had  conceived  a  prejudice,  in 
consequence  of  meeting  him  in  the  Strand,  one  Sunday  morning,  in  a  waistcoat  remark- 
ably like  one  of  mine,  which  had  been  missing  since  the  former  occasion.  The  '  young 
gal  '  was  re-engaged  ;  but  on  the  stipulation  that  she  should  only  bring  in  the  dishes, 
and  then  withdraw  to  the  landing-place,  beyond  the  outer  door  ;  where  a  habit  of 
sniffing  she  had  contracted  would  be  lost  upon  the  guests,  and  where  her  retiring  on 
the  plates  would  be  a  physical  impossibility. 

Having  laid  in  the  materials  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  to  be  compounded  by  Mr. 
Micawber  ;  having  provided  a  bottle  of  lavender-water,  two  wax  candles,  a  paper  of 
mixed  pins,  and  a  pincushion,  to  assist  Mrs.  Micawber  in  her  toilette,  at  my  dressing- 
table  ;  having  also  caused  the  fire  in  my  bedroom  to  be  lighted  for  Mrs.  Micawber's 
■convenience  ;  and  having  laid  the  cloth  with  my  own  hands,  I  awaited  the  result  with 
composure. 

At  the  appointed  time,  my  three  visitors  arrived  together.  ]\Ir.  Micawber  with 
more  shirt-collar  than  usual,  and  a  new  ribbon  to  his  eye-glass  ;  Mrs.  Micawber  with 
her  cap  in  a  v/hity-brown  paper  parcel  ;  Traddles  carrying  the  parcel,  and  supporting 
Mrs  Micawber  on  his  arm.  Thej'  were  all  delighted  with  my  residence.  When  I 
conducted  Mrs.  Micawber  to  my  dressing-table,  and  she  saw  the  scale  on  which  it  was 
prepared  for  her,  she  was  in  such  raptures,  that  she  called  Mr  Micawber  to  come  in 
and  look. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  this  is  luxurious.  This  is  a  way 
of  life  which  reminds  me  of  the  period  when  I  was  myself  in  a  state  of  celibacy,  and 
Mrs.  Micawber  had  not  yet  been  solicited  to  plight  her  faith  at  the  Hymeneal  altar.' 

'  He  means,  solicited  by  him,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber  archly.  '  He 
cannot  answer  for  others.' 

'  My  dear,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber  with  sudden  seriousness,  '  I  have  no  desire  to 
answer  for  others.  I  am  too  well  aware  that  when,  in  the  inscrutable  decrees  of  Fate, 
you  were  reserved  for  me,  it  is  possible  you  may  have  been  reserved  for  one,  destined, 
after  a  protracted  struggle,  at  length  to  fall  a  victim  to  pecuniary  involvements  of  a 
complicated  nature.  I  understand  your  allusion,  my  love.  I  regret  it,  but  I  can 
bear  it.' 

'  Micawber  !  '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Micawber,  in  tears.  '  Have  I  deserved  this  ?  I, 
who  never  have  deserted  you  ;   who  never  will  desert  you,  Micawber  !  ' 

'  My  love,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  much  affected,  '  you  will  forgive,  and  our  old 
and  tried  friend  Copperfield  will,  I  am  sure,  forgive,  the  momentary  laceration  of  a 
wounded  spirit,  made  sensitive  by  a  recent  collision  with  the  Minion  of  Power — in 
other  words,  with  a  ribald  turncock  attached  to  the  waterworks — and  will  pity,  not 
condemn,  its  excesses.' 

Mr.  Micawber  then  embraced  Mrs.  Micawber,  and  pressed  my  hand  ;  leaving  me 
to  infer  from  this  broken  allusion  that  his  domestic  supply  of  water  had  been  cut 
off  that  afternoon,  in  consequence  of  default  in  the  payment  of  the  company's  rates. 

To  divert  his  thoughts  from  this  melancholy  subject,  I  informed  Mr.  Micawber 
that  I  relied  upon  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  led  him  to  the  lemons.  His  recent 
despondency,  not  to  say  despair,  was  gone  in  a  moment.  I  never  saw  a  man  so 
thoroughly  enjoy  himself  amid  the  fragrance  of  lemon-peel  and  sugar,  the  odour  of 
burning  rum,  and  the  steam  of  boiling  water,  as  Mr.  Micawber  did  that  afternoon. 
It  was  wonderful  to  see  his  face  shining   at  us  out  of  a  thin  cloud  of  these  delicate 


MR.  MICAWFiKRVS  GAUNTLI:T  i>«;7 

fumes,  as  he  stirred,  and  mixed,  and  tasted,  und  looked  as  if  he  were  making,  instead 
of  punch,  a  fortune  for  his  family  down  to  the  latest  posterity.  As  to  Mrs.  Micawber, 
I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  eflect  of  the  cap,  or  the  lavender-water,  or  the  pins, 
or  the  fire,  or  the  wax-eandles,  but  she  came  out  of  my  room,  cornjjaratively  speaking, 
lovely.     And  the  lark  was  never  gayer  than  that  excellent  woman. 

I  suppose — I  never  ventured  to  inquire,  but  I  suppose — -that  Mrs.  Crupj),  after 
frying  the  soles,  was  tuketi  ill.  Because  we  broke  down  at  that  point.  The  leg  of 
mutton  came  up  very  red  within,  and  very  pale  without  :  besides  having  a  foreign 
substance  of  a  <,'ritty  nature  sprinkled  over  it,  as  if  it  had  had  a  fall  into  the  ashes  of 
that  remarkable  kitchen  fircj)lacc.  But  we  were  not  in  a  condition  to  judge  of  this 
fact  from  the  appearance  of  the  gravy,  forasmuch  as  the  '  young  gal  '  had  dropped 
it  all  upon  the  stairs — where  it  remained,  by  the  bye,  in  a  long  train,  until  it  was  worn 
out.  The  pigeon-pie  was  not  bad,  but  it  was  a  delusive  pie  :  the  crust  being  like  a 
disappointing  head,  phrenologically  speaking  :  full  of  lumps  and  bumps,  with  nothing 
particular  underneath.  In  short,  the  ban(|uet  was  such  a  failure  that  I  should  have 
been  quite  unhappy — about  the  failure,  I  mean,  for  I  was  always  unhappy  about 
Dora — if  I  had  not  been  relieved  by  the  great  good-humour  of  my  company,  and  by 
a  bright  suggestion  from  Mr.  Micawber. 

'  My  dear  friend  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  accidents  will  occur  in  the 
best-regulated  families  ;  and  in  families  not  regulated  bj'  that  pervading  influence 
which  sanctifies  while  it  enhances  the — a — I  would  say  in  short,  by  the  influence  of 
Woman,  in  the  lofty  character  of  Wife,  they  may  be  expected  with  confidence,  and 
must  be  borne  with  philosophy.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  take  the  liberty  of  remarking 
that  there  are  few  comestibles  better,  in  their  way,  than  a  Devil,  and  that  I  believe, 
with  a  little  division  of  labour,  we  could  accomplish  a  good  one  if  the  young  person 
in  attendance  could  produce  a  gridiron,  I  would  put  it  to  you,  that  this  little  mis- 
fortune may  be  easily  repaired.' 

There  was  a  girdiron  in  the  pantry,  on  which  my  morning  rasher  of  bacon  was 
cooked.  We  had  it  in,  in  a  twinkling,  and  immediately  applied  ourselves  to  carrjnng 
Mr.  Mieawber's  idea  into  effect.  The  division  of  labour  to  which  he  had  referred  was 
this  : — Traddles  cut  the  mutton  into  slices  ;  Mr.  Micawber  (who  could  do  an>-thing  of 
this  sort  to  perfection)  covered  them  with  pepper,  mustard,  salt,  and  cayenne  ;  I 
put  them  on  the  gridiron,  turned  them  with  a  fork,  and  took  them  off,  under  Mr. 
Mieawber's  direction  ;  and  Mrs.  Micawber  heated,  and  continually  stirred,  some 
mushroom  ketchup  in  a  little  saucepan.  ^Vhen  we  had  slices  enough  done  to  begin 
upon,  we  fell-to,  with  our  sleeves  still  tucked  up  at  the  wrists,  more  slices  sputtering 
and  blazing  on  the  fire,  and  our  attention  divided  between  the  mutton  on  our  plates, 
and  the  mutton  then  preparing. 

What  with  the  novelty  of  this  cookery,  the  excellence  of  it,  the  bustle  of  it,  the 
frequent  starting  up  to  look  after  it,  the  frequent  sitting  down  to  dispose  of  it  as  the 
crisp  slices  came  off  the  gridiron  hot  and  hot,  the  being  so  busy,  so  flushed  with  the 
fire,  so  amused,  and  in  the  midst  of  such  a  tempting  noise  and  savour,  we  reduced  the 
leg  of  mutton  to  the  bone.  My  own  appetite  came  back  miraculously.  I  am  ashamed 
to  record  it,  but  I  really  believe  I  forgot  Dora  for  a  little  while.  I  am  satisfied  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  could  not  have  enjoyed  the  feast  more,  if  they  had  sold  a  bed 
to  provide  it.  Traddles  laughed  as  heartily,  almost  the  whole  time,  as  he  ate  and 
worked.  Indeed  we  all  did,  all  at  once  ;  and  I  dare  say  there  never  was  a  greater 
success. 


268  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

We  were  at  the  height  of  our  enjoyment,  j,nd  were  all  busily  engaged,  in  our  several 
departments,  endeavouring  to  bring  the  last  batch  of  slices  to  a  state  of  perfection 
that  should  crown  the  feast,  when  I  was  aware  of  a  strange  presence  in  the  room,  and 
my  eyes  encountered  those  of  the  staid  Littimer,  standing  hat  in  hand  before  me. 

'  What 's  the  matter  ?  '  I  involuntarily  asked. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  was  directed  to  come  in.     Is  my  master  not  here,  sir  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  Have  you  not  seen  him,  sir  ?  ' 

'  No  ;   don't  you  come  from  him  ?  ' 

'  Not  immediately  so,  sir.' 

'  Did  he  tell  you  you  would  find  him  here  ?  ' 

'  Not  exactly  so,  sir.  But  I  should  think  he  might  be  here  to-morrow,  as  he  has 
not  been  here  to-day.' 

'  Is  he  coming  up  from  Oxford  ?  ' 

'  I  beg,  sir,'  he  returned  respectfully,  '  that  you  will  be  seated,  and  allow  me  to 
do  this.'  With  which  he  took  the  fork  from  my  unresisting  hand,  and  bent  over  the 
gridiron,  as  if  his  whole  attention  were  concentrated  on  it. 

We  should  not  have  been  much  discomposed,  I  dare  say,  by  the  appearance  of 
Steerforth  himself,  but  we  became  in  a  moment  the  meekest  of  the  meek  before  his 
respectable  serving-man.  Mr.  Micawber,  humming  a  tune,  to  show  that  he  was  quite 
at  ease,  subsided  into  his  chair,  with  the  handle  of  a  hastily  concealed  fork  sticking  out 
of  the  bosom  of  his  coat,  as  if  he  had  stabbed  himself.  ]\Irs.  Micawber  put  on  her 
brown  gloves,  and  assumed  a  gentle  languor.  Traddles  ran  his  greasy  hands  through 
his  hair,  and  stood  it  bolt  upright,  and  stared  in  confusion  on  the  table-cloth.  As  for 
me,  I  was  a  mere  infant  at  the  head  of  my  own  table  ;  and  hardly  ventured  to  glance 
at  the  respectable  phenomenon,  who  had  come  from  Heaven  knows  where,  to  put  my 
establishment  to  rights. 

Meanwhile  he  took  the  mutton  off  the  gridiron,  and  gravely  handed  it  round.  We 
all  took  some,  but  our  appreciation  of  it  was  gone,  and  we  merely  made  a  show  of  eating 
it.  As  we  severally  pushed  away  our  plates,  he  noiselessly  removed  them,  and  set  on 
the  cheese.  He  took  that  off,  too,  when  it  was  done  with  ;  cleared  the  table  ;  piled 
everything  on  the  dumb-waiter  ;  gave  us  our  wine-glasses  ;  and,  of  his  own  accord, 
wheeled  the  dumb-waiter  into  the  pantry.  All  this  was  done  in  a  perfect  manner,  and 
he  never  raised  his  eyes  from  what  he  was  about.  Yet,  his  very  elbows,  when  he  had 
his  back  towards  me,  seemed  to  teem  with  the  expression  of  his  fixed  opinion  that  I 
was  extremely  young. 

'  Can  I  do  anything  more,  sir  ?  ' 

I  thanked  him  and  said,  No  ;   but  would  he  take  no  dinner  himself  ? 

'  None,  I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir.' 

'  Is  Mr.  Steerforth  coming  from  Oxford  ?  ' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ?  ' 

'  Is  Mr.  Steerforth  coming  from  Oxford  ?  ' 

'  I  should  imagine  that  he  might  be  here  to-morrow,  sir.  I  rather  thought  he 
might  have  been  here  to-day,  sir.     The  mistake  is  mine,  no  doubt,  sir.' 

'  If  you  should  see  him  first — — -'  said  I. 

'  If  you  '11  excuse  me,  sir,  I  don't  think  I  shall  see  him  first.' 

'  In  case  you  do,'  said  I,  '  pray  say  that  I  am  sorry  he  was  not  here  to-day,  as  an 
old  school-fellow  of  his  was  here.' 


MR.  MIOAWBKR'S  (iAUNTLET  2G9 

'  Indeed,  sir  !  '  uiid  he  divided  ;i  l<ovv  between  me  and  Traddles,  with  a  glance  at 
the  latter. 

He  was  moving  softly  to  the  door,  when,  in  u  iovloni  hojje  of  saying  something 
naturally — whieh  I  never  could,  to  this  man — 1  said — 

'  Oh  !    Littinier  1  ' 

'  Sir  !  • 

'  Did  you  remain  long  at  Yarmouth,  that  time  ?  ' 

'  Not  particularly  so,  sir.' 

'  You  saw  the  Ijoat  eonij)leted  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir.     I  remained  behind  on  purpose  to  see  the  boat  completed.' 

'  I  know  !  '  lie  raised  his  eyes  to  mine  respectfully.  '  Mr.  Stecrforth  has  not 
seen  it  yet,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  I  really  can't  say,  sir.  I  think — but  I  really  can't  say,  sir.  I  wish  you  good 
night,  sir.' 

He  comprehended  everybody  present,  in  the  respectful  bow  with  which  he  followed 
these  words,  and  disappeared.  My  visitors  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely  when  he 
was  gone  ;  but  my  own  relief  was  very  great,  for  besides  the  constraint,  arising  from 
that  extraordinary  sense  of  being  at  a  disadvantage  which  I  always  had  in  this  man's 
presence,  my  conscience  had  embarrassed  me  with  whispers  that  I  had  mistrusted 
his  master,  and  I  could  not  repress  a  vague  uneasy  dread  that  he  might  find  it  out. 
How  was  it,  having  so  little  in  reahty  to  conceal,  that  I  always  did  feel  as  if  this  man 
were  finding  me  out  ? 

Mr.  Micawber  roused  me  from  this  reflection,  which  was  blended  with  a  certain 
remorseful  apprehension  of  seeing  Stecrforth  himself,  by  bestowing  many  encomiums 
on  the  absent  Littimer  as  a  most  respectable  fellow,  and  a  thoroughly  admirable 
servant.  Mr.  Micawber,  I  may  remark,  had  taken  his  full  share  of  the  general  bow, 
and  had  received  it  with  infinite  condescension. 

'  But  punch,  my  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  tasting  it,  '  like  time  and 
tide,  waits  for  no  man.  Ah  !  it  is  at  the  present  moment  in  high  flavour.  My  love, 
will  you  give  me  your  opinion  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Micawber  pronounced  it  excellent. 

'  Then  I  will  drink,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  if  my  friend  Copperfield  will  permit 
me  to  take  that  social  liberty,  to  the  days  when  my  friend  Copperfield  and  myself 
were  younger,  and  fought  our  way  in  the  world  side  by  side.  I  may  say,  of  myself 
and  Copperfield,  in  words  we  have  sung  together  before  now,  that 

"  We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes 
And  pu"d  the  gowans  fine  " 

— in  a  figurative  point  of  view — on  several  occasions.  I  am  not  exactly  aware,'  said 
Mr.  Micawber,  with  the  old  roll  in  his  voice,  and  the  old  indescribable  air  of  saying 
something  genteel,  '  what  gowans  may  be,  but  I  have  no  doubt  that  Copperfield  and 
myself  would  frequently  have  taken  a  pull  at  them,  if  it  had  been  feasible.' 

Mr.  Micawber,  at  the  then  present  moment,  took  a  pull  at  his  punch.  So  we  all 
did  :  Traddles  evidently  lost  in  wondering  at  what  distant  time  Mr.  Micawber  and  I 
could  have  been  comrades  in  the  battle  of  the  world. 

'  Ahem  !  '  said  Mr.  Micawber,  clearing  his  throat,  and  warming  with  the  punch 
and  with  the  fire.     '  My  dear,  another  glass  ?  ' 


270  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Mrs.  Micawber  said  it  must  be  very  little  ;  but  we  couldn't  allow  that,  so  it  was 
a  glassful. 

'  As  we  are  quite  confidential  here,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  sipping 
her  punch,  '  Mr.  Traddles  being  a  part  of  our  domesticity,  I  should  much  like  to  have 
your  opinion  on  Mr.  Micawber's  prospects.  For  corn,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber  argumen- 
tatively,  '  as  I  have  repeatedly  said  to  Mr.  Micawber,  may  be  gentlemanly,  but  it  is 
not  remunerative.  Commission  to  the  extent  of  two  and  ninepence  in  a  fortnight 
cannot,  however  limited  our  ideas,  be  considered  remunerative.' 

We  were  all  agreed  upon  that. 

'  Then,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  prided  herself  on  taking  a  clear  view  of  things, 
and  keeping  Mr.  Micawber  straight  by  her  woman's  wisdom,  when  he  might  otherwise 
go  a  little  crooked,  '  then  I  ask  myself  this  question.  If  corn  is  not  to  be  relied  upon, 
what  is  ?  Are  coals  to  be  relied  upon  ?  Not  at  all.  We  have  turned  our  attention 
to  that  experiment,  on  the  suggestion  of  my  family,  and  we  find  it  fallacious.' 

Mr.  Micawber,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  eyed  us 
aside,  and  nodded  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say  that  the  case  was  very  clearly  put. 

'  The  articles  of  corn  and  coals,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  still  more  argumentatively, 
'  being  equally  out  of  the  question,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  naturally  look  round  the  world, 
and  say,  "  What  is  there  in  which  a  person  of  Mr.  Micawber's  talent  is  likely  to  succeed  ?  ' 
And  I  exclude  the  doing  anything  on  commission,  because  commission  is  not  a  certainty. 
\Vhat  is  best  suited  to  a  person  of  Mr.  Micawber's  peculiar  temperament  is,  I  am 
convinced,  a  certainty.' 

Traddles  and  I  both  expressed,  by  a  feeling  murmur,  that  this  great  discovery 
was  no  doubt  true  of  Mr.  Micawber,  and  that  it  did  him  much  credit. 

'  I  will  not  conceal  from  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber, 
'  that  I  have  long  felt  the  brewing  business  to  be  particularly  adapted  to  Mr.  Micawber. 
Look  at  Barclay  and  Perkins  !  Look  at  Truman,  Hanbury,  and  Buxton  !  It  is  on 
that  extensive  footing  that  Mr.  Micawber,  I  know  from  my  own  knowledge  of  him, 
is  calculated  to  shine  ;  and  the  profits,  I  am  told,  are  e-NOR — mous  !  But  if  Mr. 
Micawber  cannot  get  into  those  firms, — which  decline  to  answer  his  letters,  when  he 
offers  his  services  even  in  an  inferior  capacity — what  is  the  use  of  dwelling  upon  that 
idea  ?     None.     I  may  have  a  conviction  that  Mr.  Micawber's  manners         ' 

'  Hem  !     Really,  my  dear,'  interposed  Mr.  Micawber. 

'  My  love,  be  silent,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  laying  her  brown  glove  on  his  hand. 
'  I  may  have  a  conviction,  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  Mr.  Micawber's  manners  peculiarly 
qualify  him  for  the  banking  business.  I  may  argue  within  myself,  that  if  /  had  a 
deposit  at  a  banking-house,  the  manners  of  Mr.  Micawber,  as  representing  that  banking- 
house,  would  inspire  confidence,  and  must  extend  the  connection.  But  if  the  various 
banking-houses  refuse  to  avail  themselves  of  Mr.  jMicawber's  abilities,  or  receive  the 
offer  of  them  with  contumely,  what  is  the  use  of  dwelling  upon  that  idea  ?  None. 
As  to  originating  a  banking  business,  I  may  know  that  there  are  members  of  my 
family  who,  if  they  chose  to  place  their  money  in  Mr.  Micawber's  hands,  might  found 
an  establishment  of  that  description.  But  if  they  do  not  choose  to  place  their  money 
in  Mr.  Micawber's  hands — which  they  don't — what  is  the  use  of  that  ?  Again  I 
contend  that  we  are  no  farther  advanced  than  we  were  before.' 

I  shook  my  head,  and  said,  '  Not  a  bit.'  Traddles  also  shook  his  head,  and  said, 
'  Not  a  bit.' 

'  What  do  I  deduce  from  this  ?  '  Mrs.  Micawber  went  on  to  say,  still  with  the  same 


MR.  MICAWBER'S  GAUNTLET  271 

air  of  putting  a  case  lucidly.  '  What  is  the  conclusion,  niy  rlcar  Mr.  Copperfield,  to 
which  I  am  irresistibly  brouglit  ?     Am  I  wrong  in  saying,  it  is  clear  that  we  must  live  ?  ' 

I  answered  '  Not  at  all  !  '  and  Traddles  answered  '  Not  at  all  I  '  and  I  found  myself 
afterwards  sagely  adding,  alone,  that  a  j)crson  must  either  live  or  die. 

'  Ju.st  so,'  returned  Mrs.  Micawhcr.  '  It  is  precisely  that.  And  the  fact  is,  my 
dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  we  can  not  live  without  something  widely  different  from 
existing  circumstances  shortly  turning  up.  Now  I  am  convinced,  myself,  and  this  I 
have  pointed  out  to  Mr.  Micawber  several  times  of  late,  that  things  caimot  be  expected 
to  turn  up  of  themselves.  We  must,  in  a  measure,  assist  to  turn  them  up.  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  I  have  formed  that  opinion.' 

Both  Traddles  and  I  applauded  it  highly. 

'  Very  well,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  Then  what  do  I  recommend  ?  Here  is  Mr. 
Micawber  with  a  variety  of  qualifications — with  great  talent ' 

'  Really,  my  love,'  said  Mr.  Micawber. 

'  Pray,  my  dear,  allow  me  to  conclude.  Here  is  Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  variety 
of  qualifications,  with  great  talent — /  should  say,  with  genius,  but  that  may  be  the 
partiality  of  a  wife.' 

Traddles  and  I  both  luurnmred  '  No.' 

'  And  here  is  Mr.  Micawber  without  any  suitable  position  or  employment.  Where 
does  that  responsibility  rest  ?  Clearly  on  society.  Then  I  would  make  a  fact  so  dis- 
graceful known,  and  boldly  challenge  society  to  set  it  right.  It  appears  to  me,  my 
dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  forcibly,  '  that  what  Mr.  Micawber  has  to  do, 
is  to  throw  down  the  gauntlet  to  society,  and  say,  in  effect,  "  Show  me  who  will  take 
that  up.     Let  the  party  immediately  step  forward."  ' 

I  ventured  to  ask  Mrs.  Micawber  how  this  was  to  be  done. 

'  By  advertising,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber—'  in  all  the  papers.  It  appears  to  me,  that 
what  Mr.  Micawber  has  to  do,  in  justice  to  himself,  in  justice  to  his  family,  and  I  will 
even  go  so  far  as  to  say  in  justice  to  society,  by  which  he  has  been  hitherto  overlooked, 
is  to  advertise  in  all  the  papers  ;  to  describe  himself  plainly  as  so-and-so,  with  such 
and  such  qualifications,  and  to  put  it  thus  :  "  Now  employ  me,  on  remunerative  terms, 
and  address,  post-paid,  to  W.  31.  Post  Oflice,  Camden  Town."  ' 

'  This  idea  of  Mrs.  Micawber's,  my  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  making 
his  shirt-collar  meet  in  front  of  his  chin,  and  glancing  at  me  sideways,  '  is,  in  fact,  the 
Leap  to  which  I  alluded,  when  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.' 

'  Advertising  is  rather  expensive,'  I  remarked  dubiously. 

'  Exactly  so  !  '  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  preserving  the  same  logical  air.  '  Quite  true, 
my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield  !  I  have  made  the  identical  observation  to  Mr.  Micawber. 
It  is  for  that  reason  especially,  that  I  think  Mr.  Micawber  ought  (as  I  have  already 
said,  in  justice  to  himself,  in  justice  to  his  family,  and  in  justice  to  society)  to  raise  a 
certain  sum  of  money — on  a  bill.' 

Mr.  Micawber,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  trifled  with  his  eye-glass,  and  cast  his 
eyes  up  at  the  ceiling  ;  but  I  thought  him  observant  of  Traddles,  too,  who  was  looking 
at  the  fire. 

'  If  no  member  of  my  family,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  is  possessed  of  sufiicient 
natural  feeling  to  negotiate  that  bill — I  believe  there  is  a  better  business  term  to  express 
what  I  mean ' 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  his  eyes  still  cast  up  at  the  ceiling,  suggested  '  Discount.' 

'  To  discount  that  bill,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  then  my  opinion  is,  that  Mr.  Micawber 


272  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

should  go  into  the  City,  should  take  that  bill  into  the  Money  Market,  and  should  dispose 
of  it  for  what  he  can  get.  If  the  individuals  in  the  Money  Market  oblige  Mr.  Micawber 
to  sustain  a  great  sacrifice,  that  is  between  themselves  and  their  consciences.  I  view 
it.  steadily,  as  an  investment.  I  recommend  Mr.  Micawber,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield, 
to  do  the  same  ;  to  regard  it  as  an  investment  which  is  sure  of  return,  and  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  any  sacrifice.' 

I  felt,  but  I  am  sure,  I  don't  know  why  that  this  was  self-denying  and  devoted  in 
Mrs.  Micawber,  and  I  uttered  a  murmur  to  that  effect.  Traddles,  who  took  his  tone 
from  me,  did  likewise,  still  looking  at  the  fire. 

'  I  will  not,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  finishing  her  punch,  and  gathering  her  scarf 
about  her  shoulders,  preparatory  to  her  withdrawal  to  my  bedroom  :  '  I  will  not 
protract  these  remarks  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Micawber's  pecuniary  affairs.  At  your 
fireside,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Traddles,  who,  though  not 
so  old  a  friend,  is  quite  one  of  ourselves,  I  could  not  refrain  from  making  you  acquainted 
with  the  course  /  advise  Mr.  Micawber  to  take.  I  feel  that  the  time  is  arrived  when 
Mr.  Micawber  should  exert  himself  and — I  will  add — assert  himself,  and  it  appears  to 
me  that  these  are  the  means.  I  am  aware  that  I  am  merely  a  female,  and  that  a 
masculine  judgment  is  usually  considered  more  competent  to  the  discussion  of  such 
questions  ;  still  I  must  not  forget  that,  when  I  lived  at  home  with  my  papa  and  mamma, 
my  papa  was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "  Emma's  form  is  fragile,  but  her  grasp  of  a  subject 
is  inferior  to  none."  That  my  papa  was  too  partial,  I  well  know ;  but  that  he  was  an 
observer  of  character  in  some  degree,  my  duty  and  my  reason  equally  forbid  me  to 
doubt.' 

With  these  words,  and  resisting  our  entreaties  that  she  would  grace  the  remaining 
circulation  of  the  punch  with  her  presence,  Mrs.  Micawber  retired  to  my  bedroom. 
And  really  I  felt  that  she  was  a  noble  woman — the  sort  of  woman  who  might  have  been 
a  Roman  matron,  and  done  all  manner  of  heroic  things  in  times  of  public  trouble. 

In  the  fervour  of  this  impression,  I  congratulated  Mr.  Micawber  on  the  treasure 
he  possessed.  So  did  Traddles.  Mr.  Micawber  extended  his  hand  to  each  of  us  in 
succession,  and  then  covered  his  face  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  which  I  think  had 
more  snuff  upon  it  than  he  was  aware  of.  He  then  returned  to  the  punch,  in  the  highest 
state  of  exhilaration. 

He  was  full  of  eloquence.  He  gave  us  to  understand  that  in  our  children  we 
lived  again,  and  that,  under  the  pressure  of  pecuniary  difficulties,  any  accession  to 
their  number  was  doubly  welcome.  He  said  that  Mrs.  Micawber  had  latterly  had  her 
doubts  on  this  point,  but  that  he  had  dispelled  them,  and  reassured  her.  As  to  her 
family,  they  were  totally  unworthy  of  her,  and  their  sentiments  were  utterly  indifferent 
to  him,  and  they  might— I  quote  his  own  expression — go  to  the  devil. 

Mr.  Micawber  then  delivered  a  warm  eulogy  on  Traddles.  He  said  Traddles's 
was  a  character,  to  the  steady  virtues  of  which  he  (Mr.  Micawber)  could  lay  no  claim, 
but  which,  he  thanked  Heaven,  he  could  admire.  He  feelingly  alluded  to  the  young 
lady,  unknown,  whom  Traddles  had  honoured  with  his  affection,  and  who  had  recipro- 
cated that  affection  by  honouring  and  blessing  Traddles  with  her  affection.  Mr. 
Micawber  pledged  her.  So  did  I.  Traddles  thanked  us  both,  by  saying,  with  a 
simplicity  and  honesty  I  had  sense  enough  to  be  quite  charmed  with,  '  I  am  very  much 

obliged  to  you  indeed.     And  I  do  assure  you,  she'  s  the  dearest  girl  ! ' 

Mr.  Micawber  took  an  early  opportunity,  after  that,  of  hinting,  with  the  utmost 
delicacy  and  ceremony,  at  the  state  of  my  affections.     Nothing  but  the  serious  assurance 


MR.  MICAVVBER'S  (GAUNTLET  273 

of  his  friend  Coppcrfieid  to  the  conlniry,  he  observed,  could  dci^rive  him  of  the 
impression  that  his  friend  Coppcrfieid  loved  and  was  heloved.  After  feeling  very  hot 
and  uncomfortable  for  some  time,  and  after  a  good  deal  of  blushing,  stammering,  and 
denying,  I  said,  having  my  glass  in  my  hand,  '  Well,  I  would  give  them  I).  !  '  which  so 
excited  and  gratilied  Mr.  Mieawber,  that  he  ran  with  a  glass  of  ])unch  into  my  bedroom, 
in  order  that  Mrs.  Mieawber  might  drink  D.,  who  drank  it  with  enthusiasm,  crying 
from  within,  in  a  shrill  voice,  '  Hear,  hear  !  My  dear  Mr.  Coppcrfieid,  I  am  delighted. 
Hear  I  '    and  tapjjing  at  the  wall,  by  way  of  applause. 

Our  conversation,  afterwards,  took  a  more  worldly  turn  ;  Mr.  Mieawber  telling  us 
that  he  found  Camden  Town  inconvenient,  and  that  the  first  thing  he  contemplated 
doing,  when  the  advertisement  should  have  been  the  cause  of  somctliing  satisfactory 
turning  up,  was  to  move.  He  mentioned  a  terrace  at  the  western  end  of  Oxford 
Street,  fronting  Hyde  Park,  on  which  he  had  always  had  his  eye,  but  which  he  did 
not  expect  to  attain  immediately,  as  it  would  require  a  large  establishment.  There 
would  probably  be  an  interval,  he  explained,  in  which  he  should  content  himself  with 
the  upper  part  of  a  house,  over  some  respectable  place  of  business — say  in  Piccadilly, — 
which  would  be  a  cheerful  situation  for  Mrs.  Mieawber  ;  and  where,  by  throwing  out 
a  bow  window,  or  carrying  up  the  roof  another  story,  or  making  some  little  alteration 
of  that  sort,  they  might  live,  comfortably  and  reputably,  for  a  few  years.  Whatever 
was  reserved  for  him,  he  expressly  said,  or  wherever  his  abode  might  be,  we  might  rely 
on  this — there  would  always  be  a  room  for  Traddles,  and  a  knife  and  fork  for  me. 
We  acknowledged  his  kindness ;  and  he  begged  us  to  forgive  his  having  launched  into 
tliese  practical  and  business-like  details,  and  to  excuse  it  as  natural  in  one  who  was 
making  entirely  new  arrangements  in  life. 

Mrs.  Mieawber,  tapping  at  the  wall  again,  to  know  if  tea  were  ready,  broke  up 
this  particular  phase  of  our  friendly  conversation.  She  made  tea  for  us  in  a  most 
agreeable  manner  ;  and,  whenever  I  went  near  her,  in  handing  about  the  tea-cups  and 
bread-and-butter,  asked  me,  in  a  whisper,  whether  D.  was  fair,  or  dark,  or  whether  she 
was  short,  or  tall  :  or  something  of  that  kind  ;  which  I  think  I  liked.  After  tea,  we 
discussed  a  variety  of  topics  before  the  fire  ;  and  Mrs.  Mieawber  was  good  enough  to 
sing  us  (in  a  small,  thin,  flat  voice,  which  I  remembered  to  have  considered,  when  I 
first  knew  her,  the  very  table-beer  of  acoustics)  the  favourite  ballads  of  '  The  Dashing 
White  Serjeant,'  and  '  Little  Taffiin.'  For  both  of  these  songs  Mrs.  Mieawber  had  been 
famous  when  she  lived  at  home  with  her  papa  and  mamma.  Mr.  Mieawber  told  us, 
that  when  he  heard  her  sing  the  first  one,  on  the  first  occasion  of  his  seeing  her  beneath 
the  parental  roof,  she  had  attracted  his  attention  in  an  extraordinary  degree  ;  but 
that  when  it  came  to  Little  Tafflin,  he  had  resolved  to  win  that  woman  or  perish  in 
the  attempt. 

It  was  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Mieawber  rose  to  replace  her 
cap  in  the  whity-brown  paper  parcel,  and  to  put  on  her  bonnet.  Mr.  Mieawber  took 
the  opportunity  of  Traddles  putting  on  his  great-coat,  to  slip  a  letter  into  my  hand, 
with  a  whispered  request  that  I  would  read  it  at  my  leisure.  I  also  took  the 
opportunity  of  my  holding  a  candle  over  the  banisters  to  light  them  down,  when  Mr. 
Mieawber  was  going,  first  leading  JMrs.  Mieawber,  and  Traddles  was  following  with  the 
cap,  to  detain  Traddles  for  a  moment  on  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

'  Traddles,'  said  I,  '  Mr.  Mieawber  don't  mean  any  harm,  poor  fellow  ;  but  if  I 
were  you,  I  wouldn't  lend  him  anything.' 

'  My  dear  Coppcrfieid,'  returned  Traddles,  smiling, '  I  haven't  got  anything  to  lend.' 


274  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  have  got  a  name,  you  know,'  said  I. 

'  Oh !     You  call  that  something  to  lend  ? '  returned  Traddles  with  a  thoughtful  look. 

'  Certainly.' 

'  Oh  !  '  said  Traddles.  '  Yes,  to  be  sure  ?  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you, 
Copperfield  ;   but — I  am  afraid  I  have  lent  him  that  already.' 

'  For  the  bill  that  is  to  be  a  certain  investment  ?  '   I  inquired. 

'  No,'  said  Traddles.  '  Not  for  that  one.  This  is  the  first  I  have  heard  of  that 
one.  I  have  been  thinking  that  he  will  most  likely  propose  that  one,  on  the  way 
home.     Mine  's  another.' 

'  I  hope  there  will  be  nothing  wrong  about  it,'  said  I. 

'  I  hope  not,'  said  Traddles.  '  I  should  think  not,  though,  because  he  told  me, 
only  the  other  day,  that  it  was  provided  for.  That  was  Mr.  Micawber's  expression. 
"  Provided  for."  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  looking  up  at  this  juncture  to  where  we  were  standing,  I  had  only 
time  to  repeat  my  caution.  Traddles  thanked  me,  and  descended.  But  I  was  much 
afraid,  when  I  observed  the  good-natured  manner  in  which  he  went  down  with  the 
cap  in  his  hand,  and  gave  Mrs.  Micawber  his  arm,  that  he  would  be  carried  into  the 
Money  Market  neck  and  heels. 

I  returned  to  my  fireside,  and  was  musing,  half  gravely  and  half  laughing,  on  the 
character  of  Mr.  Micawber  and  the  old  relations  between  us,  when  I  heard  a  quick 
step  ascending  the  stairs.  At  first,  I  thought  it  was  Traddles  coming  back  for  some- 
thing Mrs.  Micawber  had  left  behind  ;  but  as  the  step  approached,  I  knew  it,  and 
felt  my  heart  beat  high,  and  the  blood  rush  to  my  face,  for  it  was  Steerforth's. 

I  was  never  unmindful  of  Agnes,  and  she  never  left  that  sanctuary  in  my 
thoughts — if  I  may  call  it  so — where  I  had  placed  her  from  the  first.  But  when  he 
entered,  and  stood  before  me  with  his  hand  out,  the  darkness  that  had  fallen  on  him 
changed  to  light,  and  I  felt  confounded  and  ashamed  of  having  doubted  one  I  loved 
so  heartily.  I  loved  her  none  the  less  ;  I  thought  of  her  as  the  same  benignant, 
gentle  angel  in  my  life  ;  I  reproached  myself,  not  her,  with  having  done  him  an 
injury  ;  and  I  would  have  made  him  any  atonement,  if  I  had  known  what  to  make, 
and  how  to  make  it. 

'  Why,  Daisy,  old  boy,  dumfoundered  !  '  laughed  Steerforth,  shaking  my  hand 
heartily,  and  throwing  it  gaily  away.  '  Have  I  detected  you  in  another  feast,  you 
Sybarite  !  These  Doctors'  Commons  fellows  are  the  gayest  men  in  town,  I  beheve, 
and  beat  us  sober  Oxford  people  all  to  nothing  !  '  His  bright  glance  went  merrily 
round  the  room,  as  he  took  the  seat  on  the  sofa  opposite  to  me,  which  Mrs.  Micawber 
had  recently  vacated,  and  stirred  the  fire  into  a  blaze. 

'  I  was  so  surprised  at  first,'  said  I,  giving  him  welcome  with  all  the  cordiality  I 
felt,  '  that  I  had  hardly  breath  to  greet  you  with,  Steerforth.' 

'  Well,  the  sight  of  me  is  good  for  sore  eyes,  as  the  Scotch  say,'  replied  Steerforth, 
'  and  so  is  the  sight  of  you,  Daisy,  in  full  bloom.     How  are  you,  my  Bacchanal  ?  ' 

'  I  am  very  well,'  said  I ;  '  and  not  at  all  Bacchanalian  to-night,  though  I 
confess  to  another  party  of  three.' 

'  All  of  whom  I  met  in  the  street,  talking  loud  in  your  praise,'  returned  Steerforth, 
'  Who  's  our  friend  in  the  tights  ?  ' 

I  gave  him  the  best  idea  I  could,  in  a  few  words,  of  Mr.  Micawber.  He  laughed 
heartily  at  my  feeble  portrait  of  that  gentleman,  and  said  he  was  a  man  to  know, 
and  he  must  know  him. 


MR.  MICAWBER'S  GAUNTLET  275 

'  But  who  <lo  you  suppose  our  other  friend  is  ?  '  said  I  in  my  turn. 
'  Heaven  knows,'  said  Stccrfortli.     '  Not  a  bore,  I  hope  ?     I  thought  he  looi<ed 
a  little  like  one.' 

'  Traddies  !  '  I  replied,  triumphantly. 
'  Who  's  he  ?  '   asked  Steerforth  in  his  careless  way. 

'  Don't  you  remember  Traddies  ?     Traddies  in  our  room  at  Salem  House  ?  ' 
'  Oh  !     That  fellow  !  '    said  Steerforth,  beatinf^  a  lump  of  coal  on  the  top  of  the 
fire,  with  the  poker.     '  Is  he  as  soft  as  ever  ?     And  where  the  deuce  did  you  pick 
him  up  ?  ' 

I  extolled  Traddies  in  reply,  as  highly  as  I  could  ;  for  I  felt  that  Steerforth 
rather  slighted  him.  Steerforth,  dismissing  the  subject  with  a  light  nod,  and  a  smile, 
and  the  remark  that  he  would  be  glad  to  see  the  old  fellow  too,  for  he  had  always 
been  an  odd  fish,  inquired  if  I  could  give  him  anything  to  eat  ?  During  most  of  this 
short  dialogue,  when  he  had  not  been  speaking  in  a  wild  vivacious  manner,  he  had 
sat  idly  beating  on  the  lump  of  coal  with  the  poker.  I  observed  that  he  did  the  same 
thing  while  I  was  getting  out  the  remains  of  the  pigeon-pie,  and  so  forth. 

'  Why,  Daisy,  here  's  a  supper  for  a  king  !  '  he  exclaimed,  starting  out  of  his 
silence  with  a  burst,  and  taking  his  seat  at  the  table.  '  I  shall  do  it  justice,  for  I  have 
come  from  Yarmouth.' 

'  I  thought  you  came  from  Oxford  ?  '   I  returned. 
'  Not  I,'  said  Steerforth.     '  I  have  been  seafaring — better  employed.' 
'  Littimer  was  here  to-day,  to  inquire  for  you,'  I  remarked,  '  and  I  understood 
him  that  you  were  at  Oxford  ;   though,  now  I  think  of  it,  he  certainly  did  not  say  so.' 
'  Littimer  is  a  greater  fool  than  I  thought  him,  to  have  been  inquiring  for  me 
at  all,'  said   Steerforth,  jovially  pouring  out  a  glass  of   wine,  and   drinking  to   me. 
'  As  to  understanding  him,  you  are  a  cleverer  fellow  than  most  of  us,  Daisy,  if  you  can 
do  that.' 

'  That  's  true,  indeed,'  said  I,  moving  my  chair  to  the  table.  '  So  you  have 
been  at  Yarmouth,  Steerforth  !  '  interested  to  know  all  about  it.  '  Have  you  been 
there  long  ?  ' 

'  No,'  he  returned.     '  An  escapade  of  a  week  or  so.' 
'  And  how  are  they  all  ?     Of  course,  little  Emily  is  not  married  yet  ?  ' 
'  Not  yet.     Going  to  be,  I  believe — in  so  many  weeks,  or  months,  or  something 
or  other.     I  have  not  seen  much  of  'em.     By  the  bye  '  ;    he  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork,  which  he  had  been  using  with  great  diligence,  and  began  feeling  in  his  pockets  ; 
'  I  have  a  letter  for  you.' 
'  From  whom  ?  ' 

'  ^Vhy,  from  your  old  nurse,'  he  returned,  taking  some  papers  out  of  his  breast- 
pocket.    '  "  J.  Steerforth,  Esquire,  debtor,  to  the  Willing  Mind  "  ;    that  's  not  it. 
Patience,  and  we  '11  find  it  presently.     Old  what  's-his-name  's  in  a  bad  way,  and 
it  's  about  that,  I  believe.' 
'  Barkis,  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  Yes  !  '  still  feeling  in  his  pockets,  and  looking  over  their  contents  :  '  it  's  all 
over  with  poor  Barkis,  I  am  afraid.  I  saw  a  little  apothecary  there — surgeon,  or 
whatever  he  is — who  brought  your  worship  into  the  world.  He  was  mighty  learned 
about  the  case,  to  me  ;  but  the  upshot  of  his  opinion  was,  that  the  carrier  was  making 
his  last  journey  rather  fast. — Put  your  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  my  great-coat 
on  the  chair  yonder,  and  I  think  you  '11  find  the  letter.     Is  it  there  ?  ' 


276  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Here  it  is  !  '    said  I. 

'  That 's  right  !  ' 

It  was  from  Peggotty  ;  something  less  legible  than  usual,  and  brief.  It  informed 
me  of  her  husband's  hopeless  state,  and  hinted  at  his  being  '  a  little  nearer  '  than 
heretofore,  and  consequently  more  difficult  to  manage  for  his  own  comfort.  It  said 
nothing  of  her  weariness  and  watching,  and  praised  him  highly.  It  was  \vritten  with 
a  plain,  unaffected,  homely  piety  that  I  knew  to  be  genuine,  and  ended  with  '  my 
duty  to  my  ever  darling  ' — meaning  myself. 

While  I  deciphered  it,  Steerforth  continued  to  eat  and  drink. 

'  It 's  a  bad  job,'  he  said,  when  I  had  done  ;  '  but  the  sun  sets  every  day,  and 
people  die  every  minute,  and  we  mustn't  be  scared  by  the  common  lot.  If  we  failed 
to  hold  our  own,  because  that  equal  foot  at  all  men's  doors  was  heard  knocking  some- 
where, every  object  in  this  world  would  slip  from  us.  No  !  Ride  on  !  Rough-shod 
if  need  be,  smooth-shod  if  that  will  do,  but  ride  on  !  Ride  on  over  all  obstacles,  and 
win  the  race  !  ' 

'  And  win  what  race  ?  '    said  I. 

'  The  race  that  one  has  started  in,'  said  he.     '  Ride  on  !  ' 

I  noticed,  I  remember,  as  he  paused,  looking  at  me  with  his  handsome  head  a 
little  thrown  back,  and  his  glass  raised  in  his  hand,  that  though  the  freshness  of  the 
sea-wind  was  on  his  face,  and  it  was  ruddy,  there  were  traces  in  it,  made  since  I  last 
saw  it,  as  if  he  had  applied  himself  to  some  habitual  strain  of  the  fervent  energy 
which,  when  roused,  was  so  passionately  roused  within  him.  I  had  it  in  my  thoughts 
to  remonstrate  with  him  upon  his  desperate  way  of  pursuing  any  fancy  that  he  took — 
such  as  this  buffeting  of  rough  seas,  and  braving  of  hard  weather,  for  example — when 
my  mind  glanced  off  to  the  immediate  subject  of  our  conversation  again,  and  pursued 
that  instead. 

'  I  tell  you  what,  Steerforth,'  said  I,  '  if  your  high  spirits  will  listen  to  me ' 

'  They  are  potent  spirits,  and  will  do  whatever  you  like,'  he  answered,  moving 
from  the  table  to  the  fireside  again. 

'  Then  I  tell  you  what,  Steerforth.  I  think  I  will  go  down  and  see  my  old 
mirse.  It  is  not  that  I  can  do  her  any  good,  or  render  her  any  real  service  ;  but  she 
is  so  attached  to  me  that  my  visit  will  have  as  much  effect  on  her,  as  if  I  could  do 
both.  She  will  take  it  so  kindly,  that  it  will  be  a  comfort  and  support  to  her.  It  is 
no  great  effort  to  make,  I  am  sure,  for  such  a  friend  as  she  has  been  to  me.  Wouldn't 
you  go  a  day's  journey,  if  you  were  in  my  place  ?  ' 

His  face  was  thoughtful,  and  he  sat  considering  a  little  before  he  answered,  in  a 
low  voice,  '  Well  !     Go.     You  can  do  no  harm.' 

'  You  have  just  come  back,'  said  I,  '  and  it  would  be  in  vain  to  ask  you  to  go 
with  me  ?  ' 

'  Quite,'  he  returned.     '  I  am  for  Highgate  to-night.     I  have  not  seen  my  mother 
this  long  time,  and  it  lies  upon  my  conscience,  for  it 's  something  to  be  loved  as  she 
loves  her  prodigal  son.- — Bah  !     Nonsense  ! — You  mean  to  go  to-morrow,  I  suppose  ?  ' 
he  said,  holding  me  out  at  arm's  length,  with  a  hand  on  each  of  my  shoulders. 
'  Yes,  I  think  so.' 

'  Well,  then,  don't  go  till  next  day.  I  wanted  you  to  come  and  stay  a  few  days 
with  us.     Here  I  am,  on  purpose  to  bid  you,  and  you  fly  off  to  Yarmouth  !  ' 

'  You  are  a  nice  fellow  to  talk  of  flying  off,  Steerforth,  who  are  always  running 
wild  on  some  unknown  expedition  or  other  ! ' 


Mil.  MKJAWr.KR'S  GAUNTLET  '277 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  without  speaking,  and  then  rejoined,  still  holding 
me  as  before,  and  giving  me  a  shake — 

'  Come  I  Say  the  next  day,  and  pass  as  much  of  to-morrow  as  you  can  with  us  ! 
Who  knows  when  we  may  meet  again,  else  ?  Come  !  Say  the  next  day  !  I  want 
you  to  stand  between  Rosa  Dartle  and  me,  and  keep  us  asunder.' 

'  Would  you  love  each  other  too  much,  without  me  ?  ' 

'  Yes  ;  or  hate,'  laughed  Steerforth  ;  '  no  matter  which.  Come  !  Say  the  next 
day!' 

I  said  the  next  day  ;  and  he  put  on  his  great-coat  and  lighted  his  cigar,  and  set  off 
to  walk  home.  Finding  him  in  this  intention,  I  put  on  my  own  great-coat  (but  did  not 
light  my  own  cigar,  having  had  enough  of  that  for  one  while)  and  walked  with  hira  as 
far  as  the  open  road  ;  a  dull  road,  then,  at  night.  He  was  in  great  spirits  all  the  way  ; 
and  when  we  parted,  and  I  looked  after  him  going  so  gallantly  and  airily  homeward,  I 
thought  of  his  saying,  '  Ride  on  over  all  obstacles,  and  win  the  race  ! '  and  wished,  for 
the  first  time,  that  he  had  some  worthy  race  to  run. 

I  was  undressing  in  my  own  room,  when  Mr.  Micawber's  letter  tumbled  on  the 
floor.  Thus  reminded  of  it,  I  broke  the  seal  and  read  as  follows.  It  was  dated  an 
hour  and  a  half  before  dinner.  I  am  not  sure  whether  I  have  mentioned  that,  when 
Mr.  Micawber  was  at  any  particularly  desperate  crisis,  he  used  a  sort  of  legal  phrase- 
ology :   which  he  seemed  to  think  equivalent  to  winding  up  his  affairs. 

'  Sir — for  I  dare  not  say  my  dear  Copperfield, 

'  It  is  expedient  that  I  should  inform  you  that  the  undersigned  is  Crushed. 
Some  flickering  efforts  to  spare  you  the  premature  knowledge  of  his  calamitous  position, 
you  may  observe  in  him  this  day  ;  but  hope  has  sunk  beneath  the  horizon,  and  the 
undersigned  is  Crushed. 

'  The  present  communication  is  penned  within  the  personal  range  (I  cannot  call 
it  the  society)  of  an  individual,  in  a  state  closely  bordering  on  intoxication,  employed 
by  a  broker.  That  individual  is  in  legal  possession  of  the  premises,  under  a  distress 
for  rent.  His  inventory  includes,  not  only  the  chattels  and  effects  of  every  description 
belonging  to  the  undersigned,  as  yearly  tenant  of  this  habitation,  but  also  those  apper- 
taining to  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  lodger,  a  member  of  the  Honourable  Society  of  the 
Inner  Temple. 

'  If  any  drop  of  gloom  were  wanting  in  the  overflowing  cup,  which  is  now  "  com- 
mended "  (in  the  language  of  an  immortal  Writer)  to  the  lips  of  the  undersigned,  it 
would  be  found  in  the  fact,  that  a  friendly  acceptance  granted  to  the  undersigned, 
by  the  before-mentioned  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  for  the  sum  of  £23,  4s.  9jd.  is  overdue, 
and  is  not  provided  for.  Also,  in  the  fact,  that  the  living  responsibilities  clinging 
to  the  undersigned,  will,  in  the  course  of  nature,  be  increased  by  the  sum  of  one  more 
helpless  victim  ;  whose  miserable  appearance  may  be  looked  for — in  round  numbers 
— at  the  expiration  of  a  period  not  exceeding  six  lunar  months  from  the  present  date. 
'  After  premising  this  much,  it  would  be  a  work  of  supererogation  to  add,  that 
dust  and  ashes  are  for  ever  scattered 

'On 
'The 
'Head 
'Of 

'  WiLKiNS  Micawber.' 


278  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Poor  Traddles  !  I  knew  enough  of  Mr.  Micawber  by  this  time,  to  foresee  that  he 
might  be  expected  to  recover  the  blow  ;  but  my  night's  rest  was  sorely  distressed  by 
thoughts  of  Traddles,  and  of  the  curate's  daughter,  who  was  one  of  ten,  down  in 
Devonshire,  and  who  was  such  a  dear  girl,  and  who  would  wait  for  Traddles  (ominous 
praise  !)  until  she  was  sixty,  or  any  age  that  could  be  mentioned. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

I    VISIT    STEERFORTH    AT    HIS    HOME,    AGAIN 

I  MENTIONED  to  Mr.  Spenlow  in  the  morning,  that  I  wanted  leave  of  absence 
for  a  short  time  ;  and  as  I  was  not  in  the  receipt  of  any  salary,  and  consequently 
was  not  obnoxious  to  the  implacable  Jorkins,  there  was  no  difficulty  about  it. 
I  took  that  opportunity,  with  my  voice  sticking  in  my  tliroat,  and  my  sight 
failing  as  I  uttered  the  words,  to  express  my  hope  that  Miss  Spenlow  was  quite  well ; 
to  which  Mr.  Spenlow  replied,  with  no  more  emotion  than  if  he  had  been  speaking  of 
an  ordinary  human  being,  that  he  was  much  obliged  to  me,  and  she  was  very  well. 

We  articled  clerks,  as  germs  of  the  patrician  order  of  proctors,  were  treated  with 
so  much  consideration,  that  I  was  almost  my  own  master  at  all  times.  As  I  did  not 
care,  however,  to  get  to  Highgate  before  one  or  two  o'clock  in  the  day,  and  as  we  had 
another  little  excommunication  case  in  court  that  morning,  which  was  called  The  office 
of  the  Judge  promoted  by  Tipkins  against  Bullock  for  his  soul's  correction,  I  passed 
an  hour  or  two  in  attendance  on  it  with  Mr.  Spenlow  very  agreeably.  It  arose  out  of  a 
scuffle  between  two  churchwardens,  one  of  whom  was  alleged  to  have  pushed  the 
other  against  a  pump  ;  the  handle  of  which  pump  projecting  into  a  school-house,  which 
school-house  was  under  a  gable  of  the  church-roof,  made  the  push  an  ecclesiastical 
offence.  It  was  an  amusing  case  ;  and  sent  me  up  to  Highgate,  on  the  box  of  the 
stage-coach,  thinking  about  the  Commons,  and  what  Mr.  Spenlow  had  said  about 
touching  the  Commons,  and  bringing  down  the  country. 

Mrs.  Steerforth  was  pleased  to  see  me,  and  so  was  Rosa  Dartle.  I  was  agreeably 
surprised  to  find  that  Littimer  was  not  there,  and  that  we  were  attended  by  a  modest 
little  parlour-maid,  with  blue  ribbons  in  her  cap,  whose  eye  it  was  much  more  pleasant, 
and  much  less  disconcerting,  to  catch  by  accident,  than  the  eye  of  that  respectable 
man.  But  what  I  particularly  observed,  before  I  had  been  half  an  hour  in  the  house, 
was  the  close  and  attentive  watch  Miss  Dartle  kept  upon  me  ;  and  the  lurking  manner 
in  which  she  seemed  to  compare  my  face  with  Steerforth's,  and  Steerforth's  with  mine, 
and  to  lie  in  wait  for  something  to  come  out  between  the  two.  So  surely  as  I  looked 
towards  her,  did  I  see  that  eager  visage,  with  its  gaunt  black  eyes  and  searching  brow, 
intent  on  mine  ;  or  passing  suddenly  from  mine  to  Steerforth's  ;  or  comprehending 
both  of  us  at  once.  In  this  lynx-like  scrutiny  she  was  so  far  from  faltering  when  she 
saw  I  observed  it,  that  at  such  a  time  she  only  fixed  her  piercing  look  upon  me  with  a 
more  intent  expression  still.  Blameless  as  I  was,  and  knew  that  I  was,  in  reference  to 
any  wrong  she  could  possibly  suspect  me  of,  I  slirunk  before  her  strange  eyes,  quite 
unable  to  endure  their  hungry  lustre. 

All  day,  she  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  house.  If  I  talked  to  Steerforth  in 
his  room,  I  heard  her  dress  rustle  in  the  little  gallery  outside.     When  he  and  I  engaged 


I  VISIT  STEERFOKTII   AT  HIS  HOME,  AGAIN        -iva 

in  some  of  our  old  exercises  on  the  lawn  behind  the  house,  I  saw  her  face  pass  from 
window  to  window,  like  a  wundcriiif^  li^'ht,  until  it,  fixed  itself  in  one,  and  wutf;hed  us. 
When  we  all  four  went  out  walkinj^  in  the  afternoon,  she  closed  her  thin  hand  on  my 
arm  like  a  spring,  to  keep  me  hack,  while  Steerforlh  and  his  mother  went  on  out  of 
hearin<j :    and  then  spoke  to  me. 

'  You  have  been  a  long  time,'  she  said,  '  witiiout  corning  here.  Is  your  profession 
really  so  engaging  and  interesting  as  to  absorb  your  whole  attention  ?  I  ask  because 
I  always  want  to  be  informed,  when  I  am  ignorant.     Is  it  really,  though  Y  ' 

I  replied  that  I  liked  it  well  enough,  but  that  I  certainly  could  not  claim  so  much 
for  it. 

'  Oh  !  I  am  glad  to  know  that,  because  I  always  like  to  be  put  right  when  I  am 
wrong,'  said  l?osa  Dartle.     '  You  mean  it  is  a  little  dry,  perhaps  ?  ' 

'  Well,'  1  replied  ;   '  perhaps  it  was  a  little  dry.' 

'  Oh  !   and  that 's  a  reason  why  you  want  relief  and  change — excitement,  and  all 

that  ?  '  said  she.     '  Ah  !    very  true  !     But  isn't  it  a  little Eh  ? — for  him  ;    I  don't 

mean  you  ?  ' 

A  quick  glance  of  her  eye  towards  the  spot  where  Steerforth  was  walking,  with 
his  mother  leaning  on  his  arm,  showed  me  whom  she  meant  ;  but  beyond  that,  I  was 
quite  lost.     And  I  looked  so,  I  have  no  doubt. 

'  Don't  it — I  don't  say  that  it  docs,  mind  I  want  to  know — don't  it  rather  engross 
him  ?  Don't  it  make  him,  perhaps,  a  little  more  remiss  than  usual  in  his  visits  to  his 
blindly-doting — eh  ?  '  With  another  quick  glance  at  them,  and  such  a  glance  at  me 
as  seemed  to  look  into  my  innermost  thoughts. 

'  Miss  Dartle,'  I  returned,  '  pray  do  not  think ' 

'  I  don't ! '  she  said.  '  Oh  dear  me,  don't  suppose  that  I  think  anything  !  I  am 
not  suspicious.  I  only  ask  a  question.  I  don't  state  any  opinion.  I  want  to  found 
an  opinion  on  what  you  tell  me.  Then,  it 's  not  so  ?  Well,  I  am  very  glad  to 
know  it.' 

'  It  certainly  is  not  the  fact,'  said  I,  perplexed,  '  that  I  am  accountable  for  Steer- 
forth's  having  been  away  from  home  longer  than  usual — if  he  has  been  :  which  I 
really  don't  know  at  this  moment,  unless  I  understand  it  from  you.  I  have  not  seen 
him  this  long  while,  until  last  night.' 

'No?' 

'  Indeed,  Miss  Dartle,  no  1  ' 

As  she  looked  full  at  me,  I  saw  her  face  grow  sharper  and  paler,  and  the  marks  of 
the  old  wound  lengthen  out  until  it  cut  through  the  disfigured  lip,  and  deep  into  the 
nether  lip,  and  slanted  down  the  face.  There  was  something  positively  awful  to  me 
in  this,  and  in  the  brightness  of  her  eyes,  as  she  said,  looking  fixedly  at  me — 

'  Wliat  is  he  doing  ?  ' 

I  repeated  the  words,  more  to  myself  than  her,  being  so  amazed. 

'  What  is  he  doing  ?  '  she  said,  with  an  eagerness  that  seemed  enough  to  con- 
sume her  like  a  fire.  '  In  what  is  that  man  assisting  him,  who  never  looks  at  me 
without  an  inscrutable  falsehood  in  his  eyes  ?  If  you  are  honourable  and  faithful, 
I  don't  ask  you  to  betray  your  friend.  I  ask  you  only  to  tell  me,  is  it  anger,  is  it 
hatred,  is  it  pride,  is  it  restlessness,  is  it  some  wild  fancy,  is  it  love,  what  is  it.  that  is 
leading  him  ?  ' 

'  Miss  Dartle,'  I  returned,  '  how  shall  I  tell  you,  so  that  you  will  believe  rae,  that 
I  know  of  nothing  in  Steerforth  different  from  what  there  was  when  I  first  came  here  ? 


280  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  can  think  of  nothing.  I  firmly  believe  there  is  nothing.  I  hardly  understand  even 
what  you  mean.' 

As  she  still  stood  looking  fixedly  at  me,  a  twitching  or  throbbing,  from  which  I 
could  not  dissociate  the  idea  of  pain,  came  into  that  cruel  mark  ;  and  lifted  up  the 
corner  of  her  lip  as  if  with  scorn,  or  with  a  pity  that  despised  its  object.  She  put 
her  hand  upon  it  hurriedly — a  hand  so  thin  and  delicate,  that  when  I  had  seen  her 
hold  it  up  before  the  fire  to  shade  her  face,  I  had  compared  it  in  my  thoughts  to 
fine  porcelain — and  saying,  in  a  quick,  fierce,  passionate  way,  '  I  swear  you  to  secrecy 
about  this  !  '   said  not  a  word  more. 

Mrs.  Steerforth  was  particularly  happy  in  her  son's  society,  and  Steerforth  was, 
on  this  occasion,  particularlj'  attentive  and  respectful  to  her.  It  was  very  interesting 
to  me  to  see  them  together,  not  only  on  account  of  their  mutual  affection,  but  because 
of  the  strong  personal  resemblance  between  them,  and  the  manner  in  which  what  was 
haughty  or  impetuous  in  him  was  softened  by  age  and  sex,  in  her,  to  a  gracious  dignity. 
I  thought,  more  than  once,  that  it  was  well  no  serious  cause  of  division  had  ever  come 
between  them  ;  or  two  such  natures — I  ought  rather  to  express  it,  two  such  shades  of 
the  same  nature — might  have  been  harder  to  reconcile  than  the  two  extremest 
opposites  in  creation.  The  idea  did  not  originate  in  my  own  discernment,  I  am  bound 
to  confess,  but  in  a  speech  of  Rosa  Dartle's. 

She  said  at  dinner — 

'  Oh,  but  do  tell  me,  though,  somebody,  because  I  have  been  thinking  about  it 
all  day,  and  I  want  to  know.' 

'  You  want  to  know  what,  Rosa  ?  '  returned  Mrs.  Steerforth.  '  Pray,  pray, 
Rosa,  do  not  be  mysterious.' 

'  Mysterious  !  '   she  cried.     '  Oh  !   really  ?     Do  you  consider  me  so  ?  ' 

'  Do  I  constantly  entreat  you,'  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  '  to  speak  plainly,  in  your 
own  natural  manner  ?  ' 

'  Oh  !  then  this  is  not  my  natural  manner  ?  '  she  rejoined.  '  Now  you  must  really 
bear  with  me,  because  I  ask  for  information.     We  never  know  ourselves.' 

'  It  has  become  a  second  nature,'  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  without  any  displeasure  ; 
'  but  I  remember, — and  so  must  you,  I  think, — when  your  manner  was  different, 
Rosa ;  when  it  was  not  so  guarded,  and  was  more  trustful.' 

'  I  am  sure  you  are  right,'  she  returned  ;  '  and  so  it  is  that  bad  habits  grow  upon 
one  !  Really  ?  Less  guarded  and  more  trustful  ?  How  cati  I,  imperceptibly,  have 
changed,  I  wonder  ?  Well,  that 's  very  odd  !  I  must  study  to  regain  my  former 
self.' 

'  I  wish  you  would,'  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  with  a  smile. 

'  Oh  !  I  really  will,  you  know  !  '  she  answered.  '  I  will  learn  frankness  from — 
let  me  see — from  James.' 

'  You  cannot  learn  frankness,  Rosa,'  said  Mrs.  Steerforth  quickly — for  there 
was  always  some  effect  of  sarcasm  in  what  Rosa  Dartle  said,  though  it  was  said,  as 
this  was,  in  the  most  unconscious  manner  in  the  world — '  in  a  better  school.' 

'  That  I  am  sure  of,'  she  answered,  with  uncommon  fervour.  '  If  I  am  sure  of 
anything,  of  course,  you  know,  I  am  sure  of  that.' 

Mrs.  Steerforth  appeared  to  me  to  regret  having  been  a  little  nettled  ;  for  she 
presently  said,  in  a  kind  tone — 

'  Well,  my  dear  Rosa,  we  have  not  heard  what  it  is  that  you  want  to  be  satisfied 
about  ?  * 


i 


I  VISIT  STI:ERF0RTH   at  his  HOMK,   again        281 

'  That  I  want  to  be  satisfied  about  ?  '  she  rej)]ied,  witli  provoking  coldness. 
'  Oh  !  it  was  only  whether  people,  who  are  like  each  other  in  their  moral  constitution 
— is  that  the  phrase  '!  ' 

'  It  's  as  good  a  phrase  as  another,'  said  Slccrforlli. 

'  Thank  you  : — whether  people,  who  are  like  each  other  in  their  moral  consti- 
tution, arc  in  greater  danger  than  people  not  so  circumstanced,  supposing  any  serious 
cause  of  variance  to  arise  between  them,  of  being  divided  angrily  and  deeply  ?  ' 

'  I  should  say  yes,'  said  Steerforth. 

'  Should  you  ?  '  she  retorted.  '  Dear  me  !  Supposing  then,  for  instance — any 
unlikely  thing  will  do  for  a  supposition — that  you  and  your  mother  were  to  have  a 
serious  (juarrcl.' 

'  My  dear  Rosa,'  interposed  Mrs.  Steerforth,  laughing  goodnuturedly,  '  suggest 
some  other  supposition  !  James  and  I  know  our  duty  to  each  other  better,  I  pray 
Heaven  1  ' 

'  Oh  !  '  said  Miss  Dartle,  nodding  her  head  thoughtfully.  '  To  be  sure.  That 
would  prevent  it  ?  Why,  of  course  it  would.  Ex-actly.  Now,  I  am  glad  I  have  been 
so  foolish  as  to  put  the  case,  for  it  is  so  very  good  to  know  that  your  duty  to  each  other 
would  prevent  it  I     Thank  you  very  much.' 

One  other  little  circumstance  connected  with  Miss  Dartle  I  must  not  omit ;  for 
I  had  reason  to  remember  it  thereafter,  when  all  the  irremediable  past  was  rendered 
plain.  During  the  whole  of  this  day,  but  especially  from  this  period  of  it,  Steerforth 
exerted  himself  with  his  utmost  skill,  and  that  was  with  his  utmost  ease,  to  charm  this 
singular  creature  into  a  pleasant  and  pleased  companion.  That  he  should  succeed, 
was  no  matter  of  surprise  to  me.  That  she  should  struggle  against  the  fascinating 
influence  of  his  delightful  art — delightful  nature  I  thought  it  then — did  not  surprise 
me  either  ;  for  I  knew  that  she  was  sometimes  jaundiced  and  perverse.  I  saw  her 
features  and  her  manner  slowly  change  ;  I  saw  her  look  at  him  with  growing  admira- 
tion ;  I  saw  her  try,  more  and  more  faintly,  but  always  angrily,  as  if  she  condemned 
a  weakness  in  herself,  to  resist  the  captivating  power  that  he  possessed  ;  and  finally, 
I  saw  her  sharp  glance  soften,  and  her  smile  become  quite  gentle,  and  I  ceased  to  be 
afraid  of  her  as  I  had  really  been  all  day,  and  we  all  sat  about  the  fire,  talking  and 
laughing  together,  with  as  little  reserve  as  if  we  had  been  children. 

Whether  it  was  because  we  had  sat  there  so  long,  or  because  Steerforth  was 
resolved  not  to  lose  the  advantage  he  had  gained,  I  do  not  know  ;  but  we  did  not 
remain  in  the  dining-room  more  than  five  minutes  after  her  departure.  '  She  is  play- 
ing her  harp,'  said  Steerforth,  softly,  at  the  drawing-room  door,  '  and  nobody  but  my 
mother  has  heard  her  do  that,  I  believe,  these  three  years.'  He  said  it  with  a  curious 
smile,  which  was  gone  directly  ;   and  we  went  into  the  room  and  found  her  alone. 

'  Don't  get  up,'  said  Steerforth  (which  she  had  already  done)  ;  '  my  dear  Rosa, 
don't  !     Be  kind  for  once,  and  sing  us  an  Irish  song.' 

'  What  do  you  care  for  an  Irish  song  ?  '    she  returned. 

'  Much  !  '  said  Steerforth.  '  Much  more  than  for  any  other.  Here  is  Daisy, 
too,  loves  music  from  his  soul.  Sing  us  an  Irish  song,  Rosa  !  and  let  me  sit  and  listen 
as  I  used  to  do.' 

He  did  not  touch  her,  or  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen,  but  sat  himself  near 
the  harp.  She  stood  beside  it  for  some  little  while,  in  a  curious  way,  going  through 
the  motion  of  playing  it  with  her  right  hand,  but  not  sounding  it.  At  length  she  sat 
down,  and  drew  it  to  her  with  one  sudden  action,  and  played  and  sang. 


282  DAVID  COPPEHFIELD 

I  don't  know  what  it  was,  in  her  touch  or  voice,  that  made  that  song  the  most 
unearthly  I  have  ever  heard  in  my  life,  or  can  imagine.  There  was  something  fearful 
in  the  reality  of  it.  It  was  as  if  it  had  never  been  written,  or  set  to  music,  but  sprung 
out  of  the  passion  within  her  ;  which  found  imperfect  utterance  in  the  low  sounds  of 
her  voice,  and  crouched  again  when  all  was  still.  I  was  dumb  when  she  leaned  beside 
the  harp  again,  playing  it,  but  not  sounding  it,  with  her  right  hand. 

A  minute  more,  and  this  had  roused  me  from  my  trance  : — Steerforth  had  left 
his  seat,  and  gone  to  her,  and  had  put  his  arm  laughingly  about  her,  and  had  said, 
'  Come,  Rosa,  for  the  future  we  will  love  each  other  very  much  !  '  And  she  had  struck 
him,  and  had  thrown  him  off  with  the  fury  of  a  wild  cat,  and  had  burst  out  of  the 
room. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  Rosa  ?  '    said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  coming  in. 

'  She  has  been  an  angel,  mother,'  returned  Steerforth,  '  for  a  little  while  ;  and  has 
run  into  the  opposite  extreme,  since,  by  way  of  compensation.' 

'  You  should  be  careful  not  to  irritate  her,  James.  Her  temper  has  been  soured, 
remember,  and  ought  not  to  be  tried.' 

Rosa  did  not  come  back  ;  and  no  other  mention  was  made  of  her,  until  I  went 
with  Steerforth  into  his  room  to  say  Good-night.  Then  he  laughed  about  her,  and 
asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  such  a  fierce  little  piece  of  incomprehensibility. 

I  expressed  as  much  of  my  astonishment  as  was  then  capable  of  expression,  and 
asked  if  he  could  guess  what  it  was  that  she  had  taken  so  much  amiss,  so  suddenly. 

'  Oh,  Heaven  knows,'  said  Steerforth.  '  Anything  you  like — or  nothing  !  I 
told  you  she  took  everything,  herself  included,  to  a  grindstone,  and  sharpened  it.  She 
is  an  edge-tool,  and  requires  great  care  in  dealing  with.  She  is  always  dangerous. 
Good-night  !  ' 

'  Good-night  !  '  said  I,  '  my  dear  Steerforth  !  I  shall  be  gone  before  you  wake  in 
the  morning.     Good-night  !  ' 

He  was  unwilling  to  let  me  go  ;  and  stood,  holding  me  out,  with  a  hand  on  each  of 
my  shoulders,  as  he  had  done  in  my  own  room. 

'  Daisy,'  he  said  with  a  smile — •'  for  though  that 's  not  the  name  your  godfathers 
and  godmothers  gave  you,  it 's  the  name  I  like  best  to  call  you  by — and  I  wish,  I  wish, 
I  wish,  you  could  give  it  to  me  !  ' 

'  Why,  so  I  can,  if  I  choose,'  said  I. 

'  Daisy,  if  anything  should  ever  separate  us,  you  must  think  of  me  at  my  best,  old 
boy.  Come  !  Let  us  make  that  bargain.  Think  of  me  at  my  best,  if  circumstances 
should  ever  part  us  !  ' 

'  You  have  no  best  to  me,  Steerforth,'  said  I,  '  and  no  worst.  You  are  always 
equally  loved,  and  cherished  in  my  heart.' 

So  much  compunction  for  having  ever  wronged  him,  even  by  a  shapeless  thought, 
did  I  feel  within  me,  that  the  confession  of  having  done  so  was  rising  to  my  lips.  But 
for  the  reluctance  I  had,  to  betray  the  confidence  of  Agnes,  but  for  my  uncertainty 
how  to  approach  the  subject  with  no  risk  of  doing  so,  it  would  have  reached  them 
before  he  said,  '  God  bless  you,  Daisy,  and  good-night  !  '  In  my  doubt,  it  did  not 
reach  them  ;   and  we  shook  hands,  and  we  parted. 

I  was  up  with  the  dull  dawn,  and,  having  dressed  as  quietly  as  I  could,  looked 
into  his  room.  He  was  fast  asleep  ;  lying,  easily,  with  his  head  upon  his  arm,  as  I 
had  often  seen  him  lie  at  school. 

The  time  came  in  its  season,  and  that  was  verv  soon,  when  I  almost  wondered 


I  VISIT  STEERlOJirn  AT  IHS  HOMi:,  AGAfN        283 

that  nothing  troubled  his  repose,  as  I  looked  at  him.  Hut  he  slept — let  iiie  think  of 
him  so  again — as  I  had  often  seen  him  sleep  at  school  ;  and  thus,  in  this  silent  hour, 
I  left  him. 

— Never  more,  oh,  CJod  forgive  you,  Stcerforth  !    to  touch  that  passive  hand  in 
love  and  friendship.     Never,  never  more  ! 


CHAPTER    XXX 

A   LOSS 

I  GOT  down  to  Yarmouth  in  the  evening,  and  went  to  the  inn.  T  knew  that 
Peggotty's  spare  room — my  room — was  likely  to  have  occupation  enough  in  a 
little  while,  if  that  great  Visitor,  before  whose  presence  all  the  living  must  give 
place,  were  not  already  in  the  house  ;  so  I  betook  myself  to  the  inn,  and 
dined  there,  and  engaged  my  bed. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  went  out.  Many  of  the  shops  were  shut,  and  the  town 
was  dull.  When  I  came  to  Omer  and  Joram's,  I  found  the  shutters  up,  but  the  shop- 
door  standing  open.  As  I  could  obtain  a  perspective  view  of  Mr.  Omer  inside,  smoking 
his  pipe  by  the  parlour-door,  I  entered,  and  asked  him  how  he  was. 

'  Why,  bless  my  life  and  soul  !  '  said  Mr.  Omer,  '  how  do  you  find  yourself  ?  Take 
a  seat. — Smoke  not  disagreeable,  T  hope  ?  ' 

'  By  no  means,'  said  I.     '  I  like  it — in  somebody  else's  pipe.' 

'  What,  not  in  your  own,  eh  ?  '  Mr.  Omer  returned,  laughing.  '  All  the  better, 
sir.     Bad  habit  for  a  young  man.     Take  a  seat.     I  smoke  myself  for  the  asthma.' 

Mr.  Omer  had  made  room  for  me,  and  placed  a  chair.  He  now  sat  down  again 
very  much  out  of  breath,  gasping  at  his  pipe  as  if  it  contained  a  supply  of  that  necessary, 
without  which  he  must  perish. 

'  I  am  sorry  to  have  heard  bad  news  of  Mr.  Barkis,'  said  I. 

Mr.  Omer  looked  at  me,  with  a  steady  countenance,  and  shook  his  head. 

'  Do  you  know  how  he  is  to-night  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  The  very  question  I  should  have  put  to  you,  sir.'  returned  Mr.  Omer,  '  but  on 
account  of  delicacy.  It  's  one  of  the  drawbacks  of  our  line  of  business.  When  a 
party  's  ill,  we  can't  ask  how  the  party  is.' 

The  difficulty  had  not  occurred  to  me  ;  though  I  had  had  my  apprehensions  too, 
when  I  went  in,  of  hearing  the  old  tune.  On  its  being  mentioned,  I  recognised  it, 
however,  and  said  as  much. 

'  Yes,  yes,  you  understand,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  nodding  his  head.  '  We  dursn't 
do  it.  Bless  you,  it  would  be  a  shock  that  the  generality  of  parties  mightn't  recover, 
to  say  "  Omer  and  Joram's  compliments,  and  how  do  you  find  yourself  this  morning  ?  " 
— or  this  afternoon — as  it  may  be.' 

Mr.  Omer  and  I  nodded  at  each  other,  and  Mr.  Omer  recruited  his  wind  by  the  aid 
of  his  pipe. 

'  It 's  one  of  the  things  that  cut  the  trade  off  from  attentions  they  could  often 
wish  to  show,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  Take  myself.  If  I  have  known  Barkis  a  year,  to 
move  to  as  he  went  by,  I  have  known  him  forty  year.  But  /  can't  go  and  say,  "  how 
is  he  ?  "  ' 


284  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  felt  it  was  rather  hard  on  Mr.  Omer,  and  I  told  him  so. 

'  I  'm  not  more  self-interested,  I  hope,  than  another  man,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  Look 
at  me  !  My  wind  may  fail  me  at  any  moment,  and  it  ain't  likely  that,  to  my  own 
knowledge,  I  'd  be  self-interested  under  such  circumstances.  I  say  it  ain't  likely,  in 
a  man  who  knows  his  wind  will  go,  when  it  does  go,  as  if  a  pair  of  bellows  was  cut  open  ; 
and  that  man  a  grandfather,'  said  Mr.  Omer. 

I  said,  '  Not  at  all.' 

'  It  ain't  that  I  complain  of  my  line  of  business,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  It  ain't  that. 
Some  good  and  some  bad  goes,  no  doubt,  to  all  callings.  \Vhat  I  wish  is,  that  parties 
was  brought  up  stronger-minded.' 

Mr.  Omer,  with  a  very  complacent  and  amiable  face,  took  several  puffs  in  silence  ; 
and  then  said,  resuming  his  first  point — 

'  Accordingly,  we  're  obleeged,  in  ascertaining  how  Barkis  goes  on,  to  limit  our- 
selves to  Em'ly.  She  knows  what  our  real  objects  are,  and  she  don't  have  anj'^  more 
alarms  or  suspicions  about  us,  than  if  we  was  so  many  lambs.  Minnie  and  Joram 
have  just  stepped  down  to  the  house,  in  fact  (she  's  there,  after  hours,  helping  her  aunt 
a  bit),  to  ask  her  how  he  is  to-night  ;  and  if  you  was  to  please  to  wait  till  they  come  back, 
they  'd  give  you  full  partic'lers.  Will  you  take  something  ?  A  glass  of  srub  and  water, 
now  ?  I  smoke  on  srub  and  water,  myself,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  taking  up  his  glass,  '  because 
it 's  considered  softening  to  the  passages,  by  which  this  troublesome  breath  of  mine 
gets  into  action.  But,  Lord  bless  you,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  huskily,  '  it  ain't  the  passages 
that 's  out  of  order  !  "  Give  me  breath  enough,"  says  I  to  my  daughter  Minnie, 
"  and  1  'II  find  passages,  my  dear.' 

He  really  had  no  breath  to  spare,  and  it  was  very  alarming  to  see  him  laugh. 
^Vhen  he  was  again  in  a  condition  to  be  talked  to,  I  thanked  him  for  the  proffered 
refreshment,  which  I  declined,  as  I  had  just  had  dinner  ;  and,  observing  that  I  would 
wait,  since  he  was  so  good  as  to  invite  me,  until  his  daughter  and  his  son-in-law  came 
back,  I  inquired  how  little  Emily  was  ? 

'  Well,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  removing  his  pipe,  that  he  might  rub  his  chin  ;  '  I  tell 
you  truly,  I  shall  be  glad  when  her  marriage  has  taken  place.' 

'  Why  so  ?  '  I  inquired. 

'  Well,  she  's  unsettled  at  present,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  It  ain't  that  she  's  not  as 
pretty  as  ever,  for  she  's  prettier — I  do  assure  you,  she  is  prettier.  It  ain't  that  she 
don't  work  as  well  as  ever,  for  she  does.  She  was  worth  any  six,  and  she  is  worth 
any  six.  But  somehow  she  wants  heart.  If  you  understand,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  after 
rubbing  his  chin  again,  and  smoking  a  little,  '  what  I  mean  in  a  general  way  by  the 
expression,  "  A  long  pull,  and  a  strong  pull,  and  a  pull  altogether,  my  hearties,  hurrah  !  " 
I  should  say  to  you,  that  that  was — in  a  general  way — what  I  miss  in  Miss 
Em'ly.' 

Mr.  Omer's  face  and  manner  went  for  so  much,  that  I  could  conscientiously  nod 
my  head,  as  divining  his  meaning.  My  quickness  of  apprehension  seemed  to  please 
him,  and  he  went  on — 

'  Now,  I  consider  this  is  principally  on  account  of  her  being  in  an  unsettled  state, 
you  see.  We  have  talked  it  over  a  good  deal,  her  uncle  and  myself,  and  her  sweetheart 
and  myself,  after  business  ;  and  I  consider  it  is  principally  on  account  of  her  being 
unsettled.  You  must  always  recollect  of  Em'ly,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  shaking  his  head 
gently,  '  that  she 's  a  most  extraordinary  affectionate  little  thing.  The  proverb 
says,  "  You  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear."     Well,  I  don't  know  about  that. 


A   LOSS  285 

I  rather  think  you  may,  if  you  begin  early  in  liff.     She  has  made  a  home  out  of  that 
old  boat,  sir,  that  stone  and  marble  couldn't  t)eat.' 

'  I  am  sure  she  has  !  '  said  I. 

'  To  see  the  clinging  of  that  pretty  little  thing  to  her  uncle,'  said  Mr.  Omer  ;  '  to 
see  the  way  she  holds  on  to  him,  tighter  and  tighter,  and  closer  and  closer,  every  day, 
is  to  see  a  sight.  Now,  you  know,  there  's  :i  struggle  going  on  when  that  's  the  case. 
Why  should  it  be  made  a  longer  one  than  is  needful  ?  ' 

I  listened  attentively  to  the  good  old  fellow,  and  acquiesced,  with  all  my  heart, 
in  what  he  said. 

'  Therefore,  I  mentioned  to  them,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  in  a  coinforLuble,  easy-going 
tone,  '  this.  I  said,  "  Now,  don't  consider  Em'ly  nailed  down  in  point  of  time,  at  all. 
Make  it  your  own  time.  Her  services  have  been  more  valuable  than  was  supposed  : 
her  learning  has  been  quicker  than  was  supposed  ;  Omer  and  Joram  can  run  their  pen 
through  what  remains  ;  and  she  's  free  when  you  wish.  If  she  likes  to  make  any 
little  arrangement,  afterwards,  in  the  way  of  doing  any  little  thing  for  us  at  home, 
very  well.  If  she  don't,  very  well  still.  We  're  no  losers,  anyhow.'  For — don't  you 
see,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  touching  me  with  his  pipe,  '  it  ain't  likely  that  a  man  so  short  of 
breath  as  myself,  and  a  grandfather  too,  would  go  and  strain  points  with  a  little  bit 
of  a  blue-eyed  blossom,  like  her  ?  ' 

'  Not  at  all,  I  am  certain,'  .said  I. 

'  Not  at  all  !  You  're  right  !  '  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  Well,  sir,  her  cousin — you  know 
it  *s  a  cousin  she  's  going  to  be  married  to  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes,'  I  replied.     '  I  know  him  well.' 

'  Of  course  you  do,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  Well,  sir  !  Her  cousin  being,  as  it  appears, 
in  good  work,  and  well  to  do,  thanked  me  in  a  very  manly  sort  of  manner  for  this 
(conducting  himself  altogether,  I  must  say,  in  a  w^ay  that  gives  me  a  high  opinion  of 
him),  and  went  and  took  as  comfortable  a  little  house  as  you  or  I  could  wish  to  clap 
eyes  on.  That  little  house  is  now  furnished,  right  through,  as  neat  and  complete  as  a 
doll's  parlour  ;  and  but  for  Barkis's  illness  having  taken  this  bad  turn,  poor  fellow, 
they  would  have  been  man  and  wife — I  dare  say,  by  this  time.  As  it  is,  there  's  a 
postponement.' 

'  And  Emily,  Mr.  Omer  ?  '    I  inquired.     '  Has  she  become  more  settled  ?  ' 

'  Why  that,  you  know,'  he  returned,  rubbing  his  double-chin  again,  '  can't  natur- 
ally be  expected.  The  prospect  of  the  change  and  separation,  and  all  that,  is,  as  one 
may  say,  close  to  her  and  far  away  from  her,  both  at  once.  Barkis's  death  needn't 
put  it  off  much,  but  his  lingering  might.  Anyway,  it 's  an  uncertain  state  of  matters, 
you  see.' 

'  I  see,'  said  I. 

'  Consequently,'  pursued  Mr.  Omer,  '  Em'ly 's  still  a  little  down  and  a  little 
fluttered  ;  perhaps,  upon  the  whole,  she  's  more  so  than  she  was.  Every  day  she 
seems  to  get  fonder  and  fonder  of  her  uncle,  and  more  loth  to  part  from  all  of  us.  A 
kind  word  from  me  brings  the  tears  into  her  eyes  ;  and  if  you  was  to  see  her  with  my 
daughter  Minnie's  little  girl,  you  'd  never  forget  it.  Bless  my  heart  alive  !  '  said 
Mr.  Omer,  pondering,  '  how  she  loves  that  child  !  ' 

Having  so  favourable  an  opportunity,  it  occurred  to  me  to  ask  Mr.  Omer,  before 
our  conversation  should  be  interrupted  by  the  return  of  his  daughter  and  her 
husband,  whether  he  knew  anything  of  Martha. 

'  Ah  !  '    he  rejoined,  shaking  his  head,  and  looking  very  much  dejected.     '  No 


286  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

good.  A  sad  story,  sir,  however  you  come  to  know  it.  I  never  thought  there  was 
any  harm  in  the  girl.  I  wouldn't  wish  to  mention  it  before  my  daughter  Minnie — 
for  she  'd  take  me  up  directly — but  I  never  did.     None  of  us  ever  did.' 

Mr.  Omer,  hearing  his  daughter's  footstep  before  I  heard  it,  touched  me  with  his 
pipe,  and  shut  up  one  eye  as  a  caution.  She  and  her  husband  came  in  immediately 
afterwards. 

Their  report  was,  that  Mr.  Barkis  was  '  as  bad  as  bad  could  be  '  ;  that  he  was 
quite  unconscious  ;  and  that  Mr.  Chillip  had  moiu-nfuUy  said  in  the  kitchen,  on  going 
away  just  now,  that  the  College  of  Physicians,  the  College  of  Surgeons,  and  Apothe- 
caries' Hall,  if  they  were  all  called  in  together,  couldn't  help  him.  He  was  past  both 
Colleges,  Mr.  Chillip  said,  and  the  Hall  could  only  poison  him. 

Hearing  this,  and  learning  that  Mr.  Peggottj^  was  there,  I  determined  to  go  to  the 
house  at  once.  I  bade  good-night  to  Mr.  Omer,  and  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joram  ;  and 
directed  my  steps  thither,  with  a  solemn  feeling,  which  made  Mr.  Barkis  quite  a  new 
and  different  creature. 

My  low  tap  at  the  door  was  answered  by  Mr.  Peggotty.  He  was  not  so  much 
surprised  to  see  me  as  I  had  expected.  I  remarked  this  in  Peggotty,  too,  when  she 
came  do^vn  ;  and  I  have  seen  it  since  ;  and  I  think,  in  the  expectation  of  that  dread 
surprise,  all  other  changes  and  surprises  dwindle  into  nothing. 

I  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  passed  into  the  kitchen,  while  he  softly 
closed  the  door.  Little  Emily  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  with  her  hands  before  her  face. 
Ham  was  standing  near  her. 

We  spoke  in  whispers  ;  listening,  between  whiles,  for  any  sound  in  the  room 
above.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  on  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit,  but  how  strange  it 
was  to  me  now,  to  miss  Mr.  Barkis  out  of  the  kitchen  ! 

'  This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mas'r  Davy,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
'  It 's  oncommon  kind,'  said  Ham. 

'  Em'ly,  my  dear,'  cried  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  See  here  !  Here  's  Mas'r  Davy  come  ! 
What,  cheer  up,  pretty  !     Not  a  wured  to  Mas'r  Davy  ?  ' 

There  was  a  trembling  upon  her,  that  I  can  see  now.  The  coldness  of  her  hand 
when  I  touched  it,  I  can  feel  yet.  Its  only  sign  of  animation  was  to  shrink  from 
mine  ;  and  then  she  glided  from  the  chair,  and,  creeping  to  the  other  side  of  her 
uncle,  bowed  herself,  silently  and  trembling  still,  upon  his  breast. 

'  It 's  such  a  loving  art,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  smoothing  her  rich  hair  with  his  great 
hard  hand,  '  that  it  can't  abear  the  sorrer  of  this.  It 's  nat'ral  in  young  folk,  Mas'r  Davy, 
when  they  're  new  to  these  here  trials,  and  timid,  like  my  little  bird, — it 's  nat'ral.' 
She  clung  the  closer  to  him,  but  neither  lifted  up  her  face,  nor  spoke  a  word. 
'  It 's  getting  late,  my  dear,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  and  here  's  Ham  come  fur  to 
take  you  home.  Theer  !  Go  along  with  t'  other  loving  art !  What,  Em'ly  ?  Eh, 
my  pretty  ?  ' 

The  sound  of  her  voice  had  not  reached  me,  but  he  bent  his  head  as  if  he  listened 
to  her,  and  then  said — ■ 

'  Let  you  stay  with  your  uncle  ?  Why,  you  doen't  mean  to  ask  me  that  !  Stay 
with  your  uncle,  Moppet  ?  When  your  husband  that  '11  be  so  soon,  is  here  fur  to  take 
you  home  ?  Now  a  person  wouldn't  think  it,  fur  to  see  this  little  thing  alongside 
a  rough-weather  chap  like  me,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  round  at  both  of  us,  with 
infinite  pride  ;  '  but  the  sea  ain't  more  salt  in  it  than  she  has  fondness  in  her  for  her 
uncle — a  foolish  little  Em'ly  !  ' 


A   LOSS  287 

'  Em'ly  's  in  the  right  in  that,  Mas'r  Davy  !  '  said  Ham.  '  Look  'ee  here  !  As 
Em'ly  wishes  of  it,  and  as  she  's  hurried  and  frightened,  like,  besides,  I  '11  leave  her 
till  morning.     Let  me  stay  too  !  ' 

'  No,  no,'  said  Mr.  I'cggotty.  '  You  doen't  ought — a  married  man  like  you— 
or  what 's  as  good — to  take  and  hull  away  a  day's  work.  And  you  docii't  ought  to 
watch  and  work  l)oth.  That  won't  do.  You  go  home  and  turn  in.  \<>\i  ain't  afeerd 
of  Em'ly  not  hciiig  took  good  care  on,  /  know.' 

Ham  yielded  to  this  persuasion,  and  took  his  hat  to  go.  Even  when  he  kissed  her, 
— and  I  never  saw  him  approach  her,  hut  I  felt  that  nature  had  given  him  the  soul  of 
a  gentleman, — she  seemed  to  cling  closer  to  lier  uncle,  even  to  the  avoidance  of  her 
chosen  husband.  I  shut  the  door  after  him,  that  it  might  cause  no  disturbance  of  the 
quiet  that  prevailed  ;  and  when  I  turned  back,  I  found  Mr.  Peggotty  still  talking 
to  her. 

'  Now,  I  'm  a  going  upstairs  to  tell  your  aunt  as  Mas'r  Davy  's  here,  and  that  '11 
cheer  her  up  a  bit,'  he  said.  '  Sit  ye  down  by  the  fire,  the  while,  my  dear,  and  warm 
these  mortal  cold  hands.  You  doen't  need  to  be  so  fearsome,  and  take  on  so  much. 
What  ?  You  '11  go  along  with  me  ? — Well !  come  along  with  me — come  !  If  her  uncle 
was  tiirned  out  of  house  and  home,  and  forced  to  lay  down  in  a  dyke,  Mas'r  Davy,' 
said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  no  less  pride  than  before,  '  it 's  my  belief  she  'd  go  along 
with  him,  now  !     But  there  '11  be  some  one  else,  soon, — some  one  else,  soon,  Em'ly  !  ' 

Afterwards,  when  I  went  upstairs,  as  I  passed  the  door  of  my  little  chamber, 
which  was  dark,  I  had  an  indistinct  impression  of  her  being  within  it,  cast  down  upon 
the  floor.  But,  whether  it  was  really  she,  or  whether  it  was  a  confusion  of  the  shadows 
in  the  room,  I  don't  know  now. 

I  had  leisure  to  think,  before  the  kitchen-fire,  of  pretty  little  Em'ly's  dread  of 
death — which,  added  to  what  Mr.  Omer  had  told  me,  I  took  to  be  the  cause  of  her 
being  so  unlike  herself — and  I  had  leisure,  before  Peggotty  came  down,  even  to  think 
more  leniently  of  the  weakness  of  it  :  as  I  sat  counting  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  and 
deepening  my  sense  of  the  solemn  hush  around  me.  Peggotty  took  me  in  her  arms, 
and  blessed  and  thanked  me  over  and  over  again  for  being  such  a  comfort  to  her  (that 
was  what  she  said)  in  her  distress.  She  then  entreated  me  to  come  upstairs,  sobbing 
that  Mr.  Barkis  had  always  liked  me  and  admired  me  ;  that  he  had  often  talked  of 
me,  before  he  fell  into  a  stupor ;  and  that  she  believed,  in  case  of  his  coming  to  himself 
again,  he  would  brighten  up  at  sight  of  me,  if  he  could  brighten  up  at  any  earthly 
thing. 

The  probability  of  his  ever  doing  so,  appeared  to  me,  when  I  saw  him,  to  be  very 
small.  He  was  lying  with  his  head  and  shoulders  out  of  bed,  in  an  uncomfortable 
attitude,  half  resting  on  the  box  which  had  cost  him  so  much  pain  and  trouble.  I 
learned,  that,  when  he  was  past  creeping  out  of  bed  to  open  it,  and  past  assuring 
himself  of  its  safety  by  means  of  the  divining-rod  I  had  seen  him  use,  he  had  required 
to  have  it  placed  on  the  chair  at  the  bed-side,  where  he  had  ever  since  embraced  it, 
night  and  day.  His  arm  lay  on  it  now.  Time  and  the  world  were  slipping  from 
beneath  him,  but  the  box  was  there  ;  and  the  last  words  he  had  uttered  were  (in  an 
explanatory  tone)  '  Old  clothes  !  ' 

'  Barkis,  my  dear  !  '  said  Peggotty,  almost  cheerfully  :  bending  over  him,  while 
her  brother  and  I  stood  at  the  bed's  foot.  '  Here  's  my  dear  boy — my  dear  boy, 
Master  Davy,  who  brought  us  together,  Barkis  !  That  you  sent  messages  by,  you 
know  !     Won't  you  speak  to  Master  Davy  ?  ' 


288  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

He  was  as  mute  and  senseless  as  the  box,  from  which  his  form  derived  the  only 
expression  it  had. 

'  He  's  a  going  out  with  the  tide,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to  me,  behind  his  hand. 

My  eyes  were  dim,  and  so  were  Mr.  Peggotty's  ;  but  I  repeated  in  a  whisper, 
'  With  the  tide  ?  ' 

'  People  can't  die,  along  the  coast,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  except  when  the  tide  's 
pretty  nigh  out.  They  can't  be  born,  unless  it  's  pretty  nigh  in — not  properly  born, 
till  flood.  He  's  a  going  out  with  the  tide.  It 's  ebb  at  half-arter  three,  slack  water 
half  an  hour.  If  he  lives  till  it  turns,  he  '11  hold  his  o^v^l  till  past  the  flood,  and  go  out 
with  the  next  tide.' 

We  remained  there,  watching  him,  a  long  time — hours.  What  mysterious  influ- 
ence my  presence  had  upon  him  in  that  state  of  his  senses,  I  shall  notipretend  to  say ; 
but  when  he  at  last  began  to  wander  feebly,  it  is  certain  he  was  muttering  about 
driving  me  to  school. 

'  He  's  coming  to  himself,'  said  Peggotty. 

Mr.  Peggotty  touched  me,  and  whispered  with  much  awe  and  reverence,  '  They 
are  both  a  going  out  fast.' 

'  Barkis,  my  dear  !  '  said  Peggotty. 

'  C.  P.  Barkis,'  he  cried  faintly.     '  No  better  woman  anywhere  !  ' 

'  Look  !     Here  's  Master  Davy  ! '   said  Peggotty.     For  he  now  opened  his  eyes. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  if  he  knew  me,  when  he  tried  to  stretch  out  his 
arm,  and  said  to  me,  distinctly,  with  a  pleasant  smile — 

'  Barkis  is  -vvillin'  !  ' 

And,  it  being  low  water,  he  went  out  with  the  tide. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

A    GREATER    LOSS 

IT  was  not  difficult  for  me,  on  Peggotty's  solicitation,  to  resolve  to  stay  where  I 
was,  until  after  the  remains  of  the  poor  carrier  should  have  made  their  last 
journey  to  Blunderstone.     She  had  long  ago  bought,  out  of  her  own  savings, 
a  little  piece  of  ground  in  our  old  churchyard  near  the  grave  '  of  her  sweet 
girl,'  as  she  always  called  my  mother  ;   and  there  they  were  to  rest. 

In  keeping  Peggotty  company,  and  doing  all  I  could  for  her  (little  enough  at  the 
utmost),  I  was  as  grateful,  I  rejoice  to  think,  as  even  now  I  could  wish  myself  to  have 
been.  But  I  am  afraid  I  had  a  supreme  satisfaction,  of  a  personal  and  professional 
nature,  in  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Barkis's  will,  and  expounding  its  contents. 

I  may  claim  the  merit  of  having  originated  the  suggestion  that  the  will  should 
be  looked  for  in  the  box.  After  some  search,  it  was  found  in  the  box,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  horse's  nose-bag  ;  wherein  (besides  hay)  there  was  discovered  an  old  gold  watch, 
with  chain  and  seals,  which  Mr.  Barkis  had  worn  on  his  wedding-day,  and  which 
had  never  been  seen  before  or  since  ;  a  silver  tobacco-stopper,  in  the  form  of  a  leg  ; 
an  imitation  lemon,  full  of  minute  cups  and  saucers,  which  I  have  some  idea  Mr. 
Barkis  must  have  purchased  to  present  to  me  when  I  was  a  child,  and  afterwards  found 
himself  unable  to  part  with  ;    eighty-seven  guineas  and  a  half,  in  guineas  and  half- 


STEERPORTH 

nogn^nor'"^"""^    -on.forn.ed   yo„„K   ,„„„,    .,..e,,ed    .iu,    .   ca.lcful   easy 

(Page  1S5) 


\ 


A  GREATER  LOSS  289 

guineas  ;  two  hiindrcci  and  leii  pounds,  in  perfectly  clean  bank-notes  ;  certain  receipts 
for  Bank  of  England  stock  ;  an  old  horse-shoe,  a  bad  shilling,  a  piece  of  camphor, 
and  an  oyster-shell.  From  the  circumstance  of  the  latter  article  having  been  much 
polished,  and  displaying  prismatic  colours  on  the  inside,  I  conclude  that  Mr.  Barkis 
had  some  general  ideas  about  pearls,  which  never  resolved  themselves  into  anything 
definite. 

For  years  and  years,  Mr.  Barkis  had  carried  this  box,  on  all  his  journeys,  every 
day.  That  it  might  the  better  escape  notice,  he  had  invented  a  fiction  that  it 
belonged  to  '  Mr.  Blackboy,'  and  was  '  to  be  left  with  Barkis  till  called  for  '  ;  a  fable 
he  had  elaborately  written  on  the  lid,  in  characters  now  scarcely  legible. 

He  had  hoarded,  all  these  years,  I  found,  to  good  puri)ose.  His  property  in 
money  amounted  to  nearly  three  thousand  pounds.  Of  this  he  bequeathed  the  interest 
of  one  thousand  to  Mr.  Peggotty  for  his  life  ;  on  his  decease,  the  principal  to  be  cfjually 
divided  between  Peggotty,  little  Emily,  and  me,  or  the  survivor  or  survivors  of  us, 
share  and  share  alike.  All  the  rest  he  died  possessed  of,  he  bequeathed  to  Peggotty  ; 
whom  he  left  residuary  legatee,  and  sole  executrix  of  that  his  last  will  and  testament. 

I  felt  myself  quite  a  proctor  when  I  read  this  document  aloud  with  all  possible 
ceremony,  and  set  forth  its  provisions,  any  number  of  times,  to  those  whom  they  con- 
cerned. I  began  to  think  there  was  more  in  the  Commons  than  I  had  supposed. 
I  examined  the  will  with  the  deepest  attention,  pronounced  it  perfectly  formal  in  all 
respects,  made  a  pencil-mark  or  so  in  the  margin,  and  thought  it  rather  extraordinary 
that  I  knew  so  much. 

In  this  abstruse  pursuit ;  in  making  an  account  for  Peggotty,  of  all  the  property 
into  which  she  had  come  ;  in  arranging  all  the  affairs  in  an  orderly  manner  ;  and  in 
being  her  referee  and  adviser  on  every  point,  to  our  joint  delight  ;  I  passed  the  week 
before  the  funeral.  I  did  not  see  little  Emily  in  that  interval,  but  they  told  me  she 
was  to  be  quietly  married  in  a  fortnight. 

I  did  not  attend  the  funeral  in  character,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so.  I  mean  I 
was  not  dressed  up  in  a  l)lack  cloak  and  a  streamer,  to  frighten  the  birds  ;  but  I  walked 
over  to  Blunderstone  early  in  the  morning,  and  was  in  the  churchyard  when  it  came, 
attended  only  by  Peggotty  and  her  brother.  The  mad  gentleman  looked  on,  out  of 
my  little  window  ;  Mr.  Chillip's  baby  wagged  its  heavy  head,  and  rolled  its  goggle 
eyes,  at  the  clergyman,  over  its  nurse's  shoulder  ;  Mr.  Omer  breathed  short  in  the 
background  ;  no  one  else  was  there  ;  and  it  was  very  quiet.  We  walked  about  the 
churchyard  for  an  hour,  after  all  was  over  ;  and  pulled  some  young  leaves  from  the 
tree  above  my  mother's  grave. 

A  dread  falls  on  me  here.  A  cloud  is  lowering  on  the  distant  town,  towards 
which  I  retraced  my  solitary  steps.  I  fear  to  approach  it.  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
of  what  did  come,  upon  that  memorable  night  ;  of  what  must  come  again,  if  I 
go  on. 

It  is  no  worse,  because  I  write  of  it.  It  would  be  no  better,  if  I  stopped  my  most 
unwilling  hand.  It  is  done.  Nothing  can  undo  it  ;  nothing  can  make  it  otherwise 
than  as  it  was. 

My  old  nurse  was  to  go  to  London  with  me  next  day,  on  the  business  of  the  will. 
Little  Emily  was  passing  that  day  at  Mr.  Omer's.  We  were  all  to  meet  in  the  old 
boathouse  that  night.  Ham  would  bring  Emily  at  the  usual  hour.  I  would  walk 
back  at  my  leisure.  The  brother  and  sister  would  return  as  they  had  come,  and  be 
expecting  us,  when  the  day  closed  in,  at  the  fireside. 

K 


290  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  parted  from  them  at  the  wicket-gate,  where  visionary  Straps  had  rested  with 
Roderick  Random's  knapsack  in  the  days  of  yore  ;  and,  instead  of  going  straight 
back,  walked  a  Httle  distance  on  the  road  to  Lowestoft.  Then  I  turned,  and  walked 
back  towards  Yarmouth.  I  stayed  to  dine  at  a  decent  alehouse,  some  mile  or  two 
from  the  ferry  I  have  mentioned  before  ;  and  thus  the  day  wore  away,  and  it  was 
evening  when  I  reached  it.  Rain  was  falling  heavily  by  that  time,  and  it  was  a  wild 
night ;   but  there  was  a  moon  behind  the  clouds,  and  it  was  not  dark. 

I  was  soon  within  sight  of  Mr.  Peggotty's  house,  and  of  the  light  within  it  shining 
through  the  window.  A  little  floundering  across  the  sand,  which  was  heavy,  brought 
me  to  the  door,  and  I  went  in. 

It  looked  very  comfortable  indeed.  Mr.  Peggotty  had  smoked  his  evening  pipe, 
and  there  were  preparations  for  some  supper  by  and  by.  The  fire  was  bright,  the 
ashes  were  thrown  up,  the  locker  was  ready  for  little  Emily  in  her  old  place.  In 
her  own  old  place  sat  Peggotty,  once  more,  looking  (but  for  her  dress)  as  if  she  had 
never  left  it.  She  had  fallen  back,  already,  on  the  society  of  the  work-box  with  Saint 
Paul's  upon  the  lid,  the  yard-measure  in  the  cottage,  and  the  bit  of  wax  candle  :  and 
there  they  all  were,  just  as  if  they  had  never  been  disturbed.  Mrs.  Gummidge  appeared 
to  be  fretting  a  little,  in  her  old  corner  ;   and  consequently  looked  quite  natural,  too. 

'  You  're  first  of  the  lot,  Mas'r  Davy  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  happy  face. 
'  Doen't  keep  in  that  coat,  sir,  if  it 's  wet.' 

'  Thank  you,  Mr.  Peggotty,'  said  I,  giving  him  my  outer  coat  to  hang  up.  '  It 's 
quite  dry.' 

'  So  'tis  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  feeling  my  shoulders.  '  As  a  chip  !  Sit  ye  down, 
sir.     It  ain't  o'  no  use  saying  welcome  to  you,  but  you  're  welcome,  kind  and  hearty.' 

'  Thank  you,  Mr.  Peggotty,  I  am  sure  of  that.  Well,  Peggotty  !  '  said  I,  giving 
her  a  kiss.     '  And  how  are  you,  old  woman  ?  ' 

'  Ha,  ha  !  '  laughed  Mr.  Peggotty,  sitting  down  beside  us,  and  rubbing  his  hands 
in  his  sense  of  relief  from  recent  trouble,  and  in  the  genuine  heartiness  of  his  nature  ; 
'  there 's  not  a  woman  in  the  wureld,  sir — as  I  tell  her — that  need  to  feel  more  easy  in 
her  mind  than  her  !  She  done  her  dooty  by  the  departed,  and  the  departed  know'd 
it ;  and  the  departed  done  what  was  right  by  her,  as  she  done  what  was  right  by  the 
departed  ; — and— and — and  it 's  all  right  ! ' 

Mrs.  Gummidge  groaned. 

'  Cheer  up,  my  pretty  mawther  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  (But  he  shook  his  head 
aside  as  us,  evidently  sensible  of  the  tendency  of  the  late  occurrences  to  recall  the 
memory  of  the  old  one.)  '  Doen't  be  down  !  Cheer  up,  for  your  own  self,  on'y  a 
little  bit,  and  see  if  a  good  deal  more  doen't  come  nat'ral  !  ' 

'  Not  to  me,  Dan'l,'  returned  Mrs.  Gummidge.  '  Nothink  's  nat'ral  to  me  but  to 
be  lone  and  lorn.' 

'  No,  no,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  soothing  her  sorrows. 

'  Yes,  yes,  Dan'l  !  '  said  Mrs.  Gummidge.  '  I  ain't  a  person  to  live  with  them  as 
has  had  money  left.     Thinks  go  too  contrairy  with  me.     I  had  better  be  a  riddance.' 

'  Why,  how  should  I  ever  spend  it  without  you  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  an  air 
of  serious  remonstrance.  '  What  are  you  a  talking  on  ?  Doen't  I  want  you  more 
now,  than  ever  I  did  ?  ' 

'  I  know'd  I  was  never  wanted  before  !  '  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge,  with  a  pitiable 
whimper,  '  and  now  I  'm  told  so  !  How  could  I  expect  to  be  wanted,  being  so  lone 
and  lorn,  and  so  contrairy  !  ' 


A  gri:ai  i:r  loss  201 

Mr,  Peggotty  seemed  very  much  shocked  iit  himself  for  having  made  a  speech 
capable  of  this  unfeeling  construction,  but  was  prevented  from  replying,  by  Peggotty's 
pulling  his  sleeve,  and  shaking  her  head.  After  looking  at  .Mrs.  (inmmidgc  for  some 
moments,  in  sore  distress  of  mind,  he  glanced  at  the  Dutch  clock,  rose,  snuffed  the 
candle,  and  put  it  in  the  window. 

'  Theer  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  cheerily,  '  Theer  we  are.  Missis  Gummidge  !  ' 
Mrs.  Gummidge  slightly  groaned.  '  Lighted  up,  accordin'  to  custom  !  You  're  a 
wonderin'  what  that 's  fur,  sir  I  Well,  it  's  fur  our  little  Km'ly.  You  see,  the  path 
ain't  over  light  or  cheerful  arter  dark  ;  and  when  I  'm  here  at  the  hour  as  she  's 
a  comin'  home,  I  puts  the  light  in  the  winder.  That,  you  see,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
bending  over  me  with  great  glee,  '  meets  two  objects.  She  says,  says  Em'ly,  "  Theer 's 
home  I  "  she  says.  And  likewise,  says  Em'ly,  "  My  uncle  's  theer  !  "  Fur  if  I  ain't 
theer,  I  never  have  no  light  showed.' 

'  You  're  a  baby  1  '  said  Peggotty  ;   very  fond  of  him  for  it,  if  she  thought  so. 

'  Well,'  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  standing  with  his  legs  pretty  wide  apart,  and 
rubbing  his  hands  up  and  down  them  in  his  comfortable  satisfaction,  as  he  looked 
alternately  at  us  and  at  the  lire,  '  I  doen't  know  but  I  am.     Not,  you  see,  to  look  at.' 

'  Not  azackly,'  observed  Peggotty. 

'  No,'  laughed  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  not  to  look  at,  but  to — to  consider  on,  you  know. 
/  doen't  care,  bless  you  !  Now  I  tell  j'ou.  When  I  go  a  looking  and  looking  about 
that  theer  pritty  house  of  our  Em'ly's,  I  'm — I  'm  Gormed,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with 
sudden  emphasis — '  theer  !  I  can't  say  more — if  I  doen't  feel  as  if  the  littlest  things 
was  her,  a'most.  I  takes  'em  up  and  I  puts  'em  down,  and  I  touches  of  'em  as  delicate 
as  if  they  was  our  Em'ly.  So  'tis  with  her  little  bonnets  and  that.  I  couldn't  see  one 
on  'em  rough  used  a  purpose— not  fur  the  whole  wureld.  There  's  a  babby  for  you, 
in  the  form  of  a  great  sea  porkypine  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  relieving  his  earnestness  with 
a  roar  of  laughter. 

Peggotty  and  I  both  laughed,  but  not  so  loud. 

'  It 's  my  opinion,  you  see,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  delighted  face,  after  some 
further  rubbing  of  his  legs,  '  as  this  is  along  of  my  havin'  played  with  her  so  much,  and 
made  believe  as  we  was  Turks,  and  French,  and  sharks,  and  every  wariety  of  forinners 
— bless  you,  yes  ;  and  lions  and  whales,  and  I  doen't  know  what  all  ! — when  she 
warn't  no  higher  than  my  knee.  I  've  got  into  the  way  on  it,  you  know.  Why,  this 
here  candle  now  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  gleefully  holding  out  his  hand  towards  it,  '  / 
know  wery  well  that  arter  she  's  married  and  gone,  I  shall  put  that  candle  theer,  just 
that  same  as  now.  I  know  wery  well  that  when  I  'm  here  o'  nights  (and  where  else 
should  /  live,  bless  your  arts,  whatever  fortun  I  come  into  ?)  and  she  ain't  here,  or  I 
ain't  theer,  I  shall  put  the  candle  in  the  winder,  and  sit  afore  the  fire,  pretending 
I  'm  expecting  of  her,  like  I  'm  a  doing  now.  There  's  a  babby  for  you,'  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  with  another  roar,  '  in  the  form  of  a  sea  porkypine  !  Why,  at  the  present 
minute,  when  I  see  the  candle  sparkle  up,  I  says  to  myself,  "  She  's  a  looking  at  it  ! 
Em'ly  's  a  coming  !  "  There  's  a  babby  for  you,  in  the  form  of  a  sea  porkypine  ! 
Right  for  all  that,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  stopping  in  his  roar,  and  smiting  his 
hands  together  ;    '  fur  here  she  is  !  ' 

It  was  only  Ham.  The  night  should  have  turned  more  wet  since  I  came  in, 
for  he  had  a  large  sou' -wester  hat  on,  slouched  over  his  face. 

'  Wlieer  's  Em'ly  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

Ham  made  a  motion  with  his  head,  as  if  she  were  outside,     Mr,  Peggotty  took  the 


292  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

light  from  the  window,  trimmed  it,  put  it  on  the  table,  and  was  busily  stirring  the  fire, 
when  Ham,  who  had  not  moved,  said — 

'  Mas'r  Davy,  will  you  come  out  a  minute,  and  see  what  Em'ly  and  me  has  got  to 
show  you  ?  ' 

We  went  out.  As  I  passed  him  at  the  door,  I  saw,  to  my  astonishment  and  fright, 
that  he  was  deadly  pale.  He  pushed  me  hastily  into  the  open  air,  and  closed  the  door 
upon  us.     Only  upon  us  two. 

'  Ham  !    what 's  the  matter  ?  ' 

'  Mas'r  Davy '     Oh,  for  his  broken  heart,  how  dreadfully  he  wept  ! 

I  was  paralysed  by  the  sight  of  such  grief.  I  don't  know  what  I  thought,  or  what 
I  dreaded.     I  could  only  look  at  him. 

'  Ham  !     Poor  good  fellow  !     For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what  's  the  matter  !  ' 

'  My  love,  Mas'r  Davy — the  pride  and  hope  of  my  art — her  that  I  'd  have  died 
for,  and  would  die  for  now — she  's  gone  !  ' 

'  Gone  !  ' 

'  Em'ly  's  run  away  !  Oh,  Mas'r  Davy,  think  how  she  's  run  away,  when  I  pray 
my  good  and  gracious  God  to  kill  her  (her  that  is  so  dear  above  all  things)  sooner  than 
let  her  come  to  ruin  and  disgrace  !  ' 

The  face  he  turned  up  to  the  troubled  sky,  the  quivering  of  his  clasped  hands, 
the  agony  of  his  figure,  remain  associated  with  that  lonely  waste,  in  my  remembrance, 
to  this  hour.     It  is  always  night  there,  and  he  is  the  only  object  in  the  scene. 

'  You  're  a  scholar,'  he  said  hurriedly,  '  and  know  what 's  right  and  best.  What 
am  I  to  say,  indoors  ?     How  am  I  ever  to  break  it  to  him,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  ' 

I  saw  the  door  move,  and  instinctively  tried  to  hold  the  latch  on  the  outside,  to 
gain  a  moment's  time.  It  was  too  late.  Mr.  Peggotty  thrust  forth  his  face  ;  and 
never  could  I  forget  the  change  that  came  upon  it  when  he  saw  us,  if  I  were  to  live  five 
hundred  years. 

I  remember  a  great  wail  and  cry,  and  the  women  hanging  about  him,  and  we 
all  standing  in  the  room  ;  I  with  a  paper  in  my  hand,  which  Ham  had  given  me  ;  Mr. 
Peggotty,  with  his  vest  torn  open,  his  hair  wild,  his  face  and  hps  quite  white,  and 
blood  trickling  down  his  bosom  (it  had  sprung  from  his  mouth,  I  think),  looking 
fixedly  at  me. 

'  Read  it,  sir,'  he  said,  in  a  low  shivering  voice.  '  Slow,  please.  I  doen't  know 
as  I  can  understand.' 

In  the  midst  of  the  silence  of  death,  I  read  thus,  from  a  blotted  letter  : — 

' "  When  you,  who  love  me  so  much  better  than  I  ever  have  deserved,  even  when 
my  mind  was  innocent,  see  this,  I  shall  be  far  away."  ' 

'  I  shall  be  fur  away,'  he  repeated  slowly.     '  Stop  !     Em'ly  fur  away.     Well  !  ' 

' "  When  I  leave  my  dear  home — my  dear  home — oh,  my  dear  home ! — in  the 
morning—" ' 

the  letter  bore  date  on  the  previous  night  : 

'" — it  will  be  never  to  come  back,  unless  he  brings  me  back  a  lady.  This  will  be 
found  at  night,  many  hours  after,  instead  of  me.  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  my  heart  is  torn. 
If  even  you,  that  I  have  wronged  so  much,  that  never  can  forgive  me,  could  only  know  what 
I  suffer !  I  am  too  wicked  to  write  about  myself.  Oh,  take  comfort  in  thinking  that  I 
am  so  bad.     Oh,  for  mercy's  sake,  tell  uncle  that  I  never  loved  him  half  so  dear  as  now.     Oh. 


A  (; HEATER  LOSS  293 

don't  remember  Iiow  kind  and  affectionate  you  liave  all  been  to  mc — don't  remember  we 
were  ever  to  be  married — but  try  to  think  as  if  I  died  when  I  was  little,  and  was  buried 
somewhere.  Pray  Heaven  that  I  am  going  away  from,  have  compassion  on  my  uncle  !  Tell 
him  that  I  never  loved  him  half  so  dear.  Be  his  comfort.  Love  some  good  girl,  that  will 
be  what  I  was  once  to  uncle,  and  be  true  to  you,  and  worthy  of  you,  and  know  no  shame 
but  me.  God  bless  all !  I  '11  pray  for  all,  often,  on  my  knees.  If  he  don't  bring  me  back 
a  lady,  and  I  don't  pray  for  my  own  self,  I  '11  pray  for  all.  My  parting  love  to  uncle.  My 
last  tears,  and  my  last  thanks,  for  uncle  !  "  ' 

That  was  all. 

lie  stood,  lonf;  after  I  had  ceased  to  read,  still  looking  at  me.  At  length  I  ventured 
to  take  his  hand,  and  to  entreat  him,  as  well  as  I  could,  to  endeavour  to  get  some 
command  of  himself.     He  replied,  '  I  thank  'ec,  sir,  I  thank  'ee,'  without  moving. 

Ham  spoke  to  him.  Mr.  Peggotty  was  so  far  sensible  of  his  afllietion,  that  he 
wrung  his  hand  ;  but,  otherwise,  he  remained  in  the  same  state,  and  no  one  dared  to 
disturb  him. 

Slowly,  at  last  he  moved  his  eyes  from  my  face,  as  if  he  were  waking  from  a  vision, 
and  cast  them  round  the  room.     Then  he  said,  in  a  low  voice — 

'  Who  's  the  man  ?     I  want  to  know  his  name.' 

Ham  glanced  at  me,  and  suddenly  I  felt  a  shock  that  struck  me  back. 

'  There  's  a  man  suspected,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty.     '  Who  is  it  ?  ' 

'  Mas'r  Davy  !  '  implored  Ham.  '  Go  out  a  bit,  and  let  me  tell  him  what  I  must. 
You  doen't  ought  to  hear  it,  sir.' 

I  felt  the  shock  again.  I  sank  down  in  a  chair,  and  tried  to  utter  some  reply  ; 
but  my  tongue  was  fettered,  and  my  sight  was  weak. 

'  I  want  to  know  his  name  !  '  I  heard  said,  once  more. 

'  For  some  time  past,'  Ham  faltered,  '  there  's  been  a  servant  about  here,  at  odd 
times.     There  's  been  a  gen'l'm'n  too.     Both  of  'em  belonged  to  one  another.' 

Mr.  Peggotty  stood  fixed  as  before,  but  now  looking  at  him. 

'  The  servant,'  pursued  Ham,  '  was  seen  along  with — our  poor  girl — last  night. 
He  's  been  in  hiding  aboiit  here,  this  week  or  over.  He  was  thought  to  have  gone,  but 
he  was  hiding.     Doen't  stay,  Mas'r  Davy,  doen't  !  ' 

I  felt  Peggotty's  arm  round  my  neck,  but  I  could  not  have  moved  if  the  house 
had  been  about  to  fall  upon  me. 

'  A  strange  chay  and  bosses  was  outside  town,  this  morning,  on  the  Norwich  road, 
a'most  afore  the  day  broke,'  Ham  went  on.  '  The  servant  went  to  it,  and  come  from 
it,  and  went  to  it  again.  WTien  he  went  to  it  again,  Em'ly  was  nigh  him.  The  t'other 
was  inside.     He  's  the  man.' 

'  For  the  Lord's  love,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  falling  back,  and  putting  out  his  hand, 
as  if  to  keep  off  what  he  dreaded.     '  Doen't  tell  me  his  name  's  Steerforth.' 

'  Mas'r  Davy,'  exclaimed  Ham,  in  a  broken  voice,  '  it  ain't  no  fault  of  yourn — and 
I  am  far  from  laying  of  it  to  you — but  his  name  is  Steerforth,  and  he  's  a  damned 
villain  !  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty  uttered  no  cry,  and  shed  no  tear,  and  moved  no  more,  until  he  seemed 
to  wake  again,  all  at  once,  and  pulled  down  his  rough  coat  from  its  peg  in  a  corner. 

'  Bear  a  hand  with  this  !  I  'm  struck  of  a  heap,  and  can't  do  it,'  he  said, 
impatiently.  '  Bear  a  hand  and  help  me.  Well  !  '  when  somebody  had  done  so. 
'  Now  give  me  that  theer  hat  !  ' 

Ham  asked  him  whither  he  was  going. 


294  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  I  'm  a  going  to  seek  my  niece.  I  'm  a  going  to  seek  my  Em'ly.  I  'm  a  going, 
first,  to  stave  in  that  theer  boat,  and  sink  it  where  I  would  have  drownded  him,  as  I  'ra 
a  livin'  soul,  if  I  had  had  one  thought  of  what  was  in  him  !  As  he  sat  afore  me,'  he 
said,  wildly,  holding  out  his  clenched  right  hand,  '  as  he  sat  afore  me,  face  to  face, 
strike  me  down  dead,  but  I  'd  have  drownded  him,  and  thought  it  right  !  I  'm  a 
going  to  seek  my  niece.' 

'  Where  ?  '  cried  Ham,  interposing  himself  before  the  door. 

'  Anywhere  !  I  'm  a  going  to  seek  my  niece  through  the  wureld.  I  'm  a  going 
to  find  my  poor  niece  in  her  shame,  and  bring  her  back.  No  one  stop  me  !  I  tell  you 
I  'm  a  going  to  seek  my  niece  !  ' 

'  No,  no  !  '  cried  IVIrs.  Gummidge,  coming  between  them,  in  a  fit  of  crying.  '  No, 
no,  Dan'l,  not  as  you  are  now.  Seek  her  in  a  little  while,  my  lone  lorn  Dan'I,  and 
that  '11  be  but  right  !  but  not  as  you  are  now.  Sit  ye  down,  and  give  me  your  forgive- 
ness for  having  ever  been  a  worrit  to  you,  Dan'l — what  have  my  contrairies  ever  been 
to  this  ! — and  let  us  speak  a  word  about  them  times  when  she  was  first  an  orphan, 
and  when  Ham  was  too,  and  when  I  was  a  poor  widder  woman,  and  you  took  me  in. 
It  '11  soften  your  poor  heart,  Dan'l,'  laying  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  '  and  you  '11 
bear  your  sorrow  better  ;  for  you  know  the  promise,  Dan'l,  "  As  you  have  done  it  unto 
one  of  the  least  of  these,  you  have  done  it  unto  Me  "  ;  and  that  can  never  fail  under 
this  roof,  that 's  been  our  shelter  for  so  many,  many  year  !  ' 

He  was  quite  passive  now  ;  and  when  I  heard  him  crying,  the  impulse  that  had 
been  upon  me  to  go  down  upon  my  knees,  and  ask  their  pardon  for  the  desolation  I 
had  caused,  and  curse  Steerforth,  yielded  to  a  better  feeling.  My  overcharged  heart 
found  the  same  relief,  and  I  cried  too. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

THE   BEGINNING    OF    A    LONG    JOURNEY 

WHAT  is  natural  in  me,  is  natural  in  many  other  men,  I  infer,  and  so  I  am 
not  afraid  to  write  that  I  never  had  loved  Steerforth  better  than  when 
the  ties  that  bound  me  to  him  were  broken.  In  the  keen  distress  of 
the  discovery  of  his  unworthiness,  I  thought  more  of  all  that  was  brilliant 
in  him,  I  softened  more  towards  all  that  was  good  in  him,  I  did  more  justice  to  the 
qualities  that  might  have  made  him  a  man  of  a  noble  nature  and  a  great  name, 
than  ever  I  had  done  in  the  height  of  my  devotion  to  him.  Deeply  as  I  felt  my 
own  unconscious  part  in  his  pollution  of  an  honest  home,  I  believed  that  if  I  had 
been  brought  face  to  face  with  him,  I  could  not  have  uttered  one  reproach.  I  should 
have  loved  him  so  well  still — though  he  fascinated  me  no  longer — I  should  have  held 
in  so  much  tenderness  the  memory  of  my  affection  for  him,  that  I  think  I  should  have 
been  as  weak  as  a  spirit-wounded  child,  in  all  but  the  entertainment  of  a  thought  that 
we  could  ever  be  re-united.  That  thought  I  never  had.  I  felt,  as  he  had  felt,  that  ail 
was  at  an  end  between  us.  What  his  remembrances  of  me  were,  I  have  never  known 
— they  were  light  enough,  perhaps,  and  easily  dismissed — but  mine  of  him  were  as  the 
remembrances  of  a  cherished  friend,  who  was  dead. 


THK  BIX; INNING  OF  A  LON(;  JOURNEY  295 

Yes,  Steerforth,  long  removed  from  the  scenes  of  this  poor  history  !  My  sorrow 
may  bear  involuntary  witness  against  you  at  the  Judgment  Throne  ;  but  my  angry 
thoughts  or  my  reproaches  never  will,  I  know  ! 

The  news  of  what  had  happened  soon  spread  through  the  town  ;  insomuch  that 
as  I  passed  along  the  streets  next  morning,  I  overheard  the  people  speaking  of  it  at 
their  doors.  Many  were  hard  upon  her,  some  few  hard  upon  him,  but  towards  her 
second  father  and  her  lover  there  was  but  one  sentiment.  Among  all  kinds  of  people 
a  respect  for  them  in  their  distress  prevailed,  which  was  full  of  gentleness  and  delicacy. 
The  seafaring  men  kept  apart,  when  those  two  were  seen  early,  walking  with  slow 
steps  on  the  beach  ;    and  stood  in  knots,  talking  compassionately  among  themselves. 

It  was  on  the  beach,  close  down  by  the  sea,  that  I  found  them.  It  would  have 
been  easy  to  perceive  that  they  had  not  slept  all  last  night,  even  if  Peggotty  had  failed 
to  tell  me  of  their  still  sitting  just  as  I  left  them,  when  it  was  broad  day.  They  looked 
worn  ;  and  I  thought  Mr.  Peggotty's  head  was  bowed  in  one  night  more  than  in  all 
the  years  I  had  known  him.  But  they  were  both  as  grave  and  steady  as  the  sea  itself  : 
then  lying  beneath  a  dark  sky,  waveless— yet  with  a  heavy  roll  upon  it,  as  if  it  breathed 
in  its  rest— and  touched,  on  the  horizon,  with  a  strip  of  silvery  light  from  the  unseen  sun. 

'  We  have  had  a  mort  of  talk,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to  me,  when  we  had  all 
three  walked  a  little  while  in  silence,  '  of  what  we  ought  and  doen't  ought  to  do.  But 
we  see  our  course  now.' 

I  happened  to  glance  at  Ham,  then  looking  out  to  sea  upon  the  distant  light, 
and  a  frightful  thought  came  into  my  mind — not  that  his  face  was  angry,  for  it  was 
not  ;  I  recall  nothing  but  an  expression  of  stern  determination  in  it — that  if  ever  he 
encountered  Steerforth,  he  would  kill  him. 

'  My  dooty  here,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  is  done.     I  'm  a  going  to  seek  my 

he  stopped,  and  went  on  in  a  firmer  voice  :  '  I  'm  a  going  to  seek  her.  That 's  my 
dooty  evermore.' 

He  shook  his  head  when  I  asked  him  where  he  would  seek  her,  and  inquired  if 
I  were  going  to  London  to-morrow  ?  I  told  him  I  had  not  gone  to-day,  fearing  to 
lose  the  chance  of  being  of  any  service  to  him  ;  but  that  I  was  ready  to  go  when  he 
would. 

'  I  '11  go  along  with  you,  sir,'  he  rejoined,  '  if  you  're  agreeable,  to-morrow.' 

We  walked  again,  for  a  while,  in  silence. 

'  Ham,'  he  presently  resumed,  '  he  '11  hold  to  his  present  work,  and  go  and  live 
along  with  my  sister.     The  old  boat  yonder ' 

'  Will  j-ou  desert  the  old  boat,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  '  I  gently  interposed. 

'  My  station,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  returned,  '  ain't  there  no  longer  ;  and  if  ever  a  boat 
foundered,  since  there  was  darkness  on  the  face  of  the  deep,  that  one  's  gone  down. 
But  no,  sir,  no  ;   I  doen't  mean  as  it  should  be  deserted.     Fur  from  that.' 

We  walked  again  for  a  while,  as  before,  until  he  explained — 

'  My  wishes  is,  sir,  as  it  shall  look,  day  and  night,  winter  and  summer,  as  it  has 
always  looked,  since  she  fust  know'd  it.  If  ever  she  should  come  a  wandering  back, 
I  wouldn't  have  the  old  place  seem  to  cast  her  off,  you  understand,  but  seem  to  tempt 
her  to  draw  nigher  to  't,  and  to  peep  in,  maybe,  like  a  ghost,  out  of  the  wind  and 
rain,  through  the  old  winder,  at  the  old  seat  by  the  fire.  Then,  maybe,  Mas'r  Davy, 
seein'  none  but  Missis  Gummidge  there,  she  might  take  heart  to  creep  in,  trembling  ; 
and  might  come  to  be  laid  down  in  her  old  bed,  and  rest  her  weary  head  where  it  was 
once  so  gay.' 


296  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  could  not  speak  to  him  in  reply,  thougli  I  tried. 

'  Every  night,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  as  reg'lar  as  the  night  comes,  the  candle 
must  be  stood  in  its  old  pane  of  glass,  that  if  ever  she  should  see  it,  it  may  seem  to  say, 
"  Come  back,  my  child,  come  back  !  "  If  ever  there  's  a  knock,  Ham  (partic'ler  a  soft 
knock),  arter  dark,  at  your  aunt's  door,  doen't  you  go  nigh  it.  Let  it  be  her — not  you 
— that  sees  my  fallen  child  !  ' 

He  walked  a  little  in  front  of  us,  and  kept  before  us  for  some  minutes.  During 
this  interval,  I  glanced  at  Ham  again,  and  observing  the  same  expression  on  his  face, 
and  his  eye,  still  directed  to  the  distant  light,  I  touched  his  arm. 

Twice  I  called  him  by  his  name,  in  the  tone  in  which  I  might  have  tried  to  rouse 
a  sleeper,  before  he  heeded  me.  When  I  at  last  inquired  on  what  his  thoughts  were 
so  bent,  he  replied^ 

'  On  what 's  afore  me,  Mas'r  Davy  ;   and  over  yon.' 

'  On  the  life  before  you,  do  you  mean  ?  '     He  had  pointed  confusedly  out  to  sea. 

'  Ay,  Mas'r  Davy.  I  doen't  rightly  know  how  'tis,  but  from  over  yon  there 
seemed  to  me  to  come — the  end  of  it  like  '  ;  looking  at  me  as  if  he  were  waking,  but 
with  the  same  determined  face. 

'  What  end  ?  '  I  asked,  possessed  by  my  former  fear. 

'  I  doen't  know,'  he  said,  thoughtfully  ;  '  I  was  calling  to  mind  that  the  beginning 
of  it  all  did  take  place  here — and  then  the  end  come.  But  it 's  gone  !  Mas'r  Davy,' 
he  added  ;  answering,  as  I  think,  my  look  ;  '  you  hadn't  no  call  to  be  afeerd  of  me  : 
but  I  'm  kiender  muddled  ;  I  don't  fare  to  feel  no  matters,'— which  was  as  much  as  to 
say  that  he  was  not  himself,  and  quite  confounded. 

Mr.  Peggotty  stopping  for  us  to  join  him  :  we  did  so,  and  said  no  more.  The 
remembrance  of  this,  in  connection  with  my  former  thought,  however,  haunted  me  at 
intervals,  even  until  the  inexorable  end  came  at  its  appointed  time. 

We  insensibly  approached  the  old  boat,  and  entered.  Mrs.  Gummidge,  no  longer 
moping  in  her  especial  corner,  was  busy  preparing  breakfast.  She  took  Mr.  Peggotty's 
hat,  and  placed  his  seat  for  him,  and  spoke  so  comfortably  and  softly,  that  I  hardly 
knew  her. 

'  Dan'l,  my  good  man,'  said  she,  '  you  must  eat  and  drink,  and  keep  up  your 
strength,  for  without  it  you  '11  do  nowt.  Try,  that 's  a  dear  soul  !  And  if  I  disturb 
you  with  my  clicketten,'  she  meant  her  chattering,  '  tell  me  so,  Dan'l,  and  I  won't.' 

When  she  had  served  us  all,  she  withdrew  to  the  window,  where  she  sedulously 
employed  herself  in  repairing  some  shirts  and  other  clothes  belonging  to  Mr.  Peggotty, 
and  neatly  folding  and  packing  them  in  an  old  oilskin  bag,  such  as  sailors  carry.  Mean- 
while, she  continued  talking,  in  the  same  quiet  manner — ■ 

'  All  times  and  seasons,  you  know,  Dan'l,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge,  '  I  shall  be  alius 
here,  and  everythink  will  look  accordin'  to  your  wishes.  I  'm  a  poor  scholar,  but  I 
shall  write  to  you,  odd  times,  when  you  're  away,  and  send  my  letters  to  Mas'r  Davy. 
Maybe  you  '11  write  to  me  too,  Dan'l,  odd  times,  and  tell  me  how  you  fare  to  feel  upon 
your  lone  lorn  journeys.' 

'  You  '11  be  a  solitary  woman  here,  I  'm  afeerd  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  No,  no,  Dan'l,'  she  returned,  '  I  shan't  be  that.  Doen't  you  mind  me.  I  shall 
have  enough  to  do  to  keep  a  Beein  for  you  '  (Mrs.  Gummidge  meant  a  home),  '  again 
you  come  back — to  keep  a  Beein  here  for  any  that  may  hap  to  come  back,  Dan'l. 
In  the  fine  time,  I  shall  set  outside  the  door  as  I  used  to  do.  If  any  should  come  nigh, 
they  shall  see  the  old  widder  woman  true  to  'em,  a  long  way  off.' 


THE  HE(UNN1NG  OF  A  LONG  JOURNEY  207 

What  u  cliuii{,'e  in  Mrs.  (iummidgc  in  u  iiltle  time  !  She  was  another  woman. 
She  was  so  devoted,  she  had  such  a  quick  perception  of  what  it  would  be  well  to  say, 
and  whiit  it  would  i)e  well  to  leave  unsaid  ;  she  was  so  forfjctful  of  herself,  and  so 
regardful  of  the  sorrow  about  her,  that  I  held  her  in  a  sort  of  veneration.  The  work 
she  did  that  day  !  There  were  many  things  to  be  brought  up  from  the  beach  and 
stored  in  the  outhouse — as  oars,  nets,  sails,  cordage,  spars,  lobster-pots,  bags  of  ballast, 
and  the  like  ;  and  though  there  was  abundance  of  assistance  rendered,  there  being 
not  a  pair  of  working  hands  on  all  that  shore  but  would  have  laboured  hard  for 
Mr.  Peggotty,  and  been  well  paid  in  being  asked  to  do  it,  yet  she  persisted,  all  day 
long,  in  toiling  under  weights  that  she  was  quite  unequal  to,  and  fagging  to  and  fro 
on  all  sorts  of  unnecessary  errands.  As  to  deploring  her  misfortunes,  she  aj)peared  to 
have  entirely  lost  the  recollection  of  ever  having  had  any.  She  preserved  an  equable 
cheerfulness  in  the  midst  of  her  sympathy,  which  was  not  the  least  astonishing  part 
of  the  change  that  had  come  over  her.  Querulousness  was  out  of  the  question.  I  did 
not  even  observe  her  voice  to  falter,  or  a  tear  to  escape  from  her  eyes,  the  whole  day 
through,  until  twilight  ;  when  she  and  I  and  Mr.  Peggotty  being  alone  together,  and 
he  having  fallen  asleep  in  perfect  exhaustion,  she  broke  into  a  half-suppressed  fit  of 
sobbing  and  crying,  and  taking  me  to  the  door,  said,  '  Ever  bless  you,  Mas'r  Davy, 
be  a  friend  to  him,  poor  dear  !  '  Then,  she  immediately  ran  out  of  the  house  to  wash 
her  face,  in  order  that  she  might  sit  quietly  beside  him,  and  be  found  at  work  there 
when  he  should  awake.  In  short  I  left  her,  when  I  went  away  at  night,  the  prop  and 
staff  of  Mr.  Peggotty's  aflliction  :  and  I  could  not  meditate  enough  upon  the  lesson 
that  I  read  in  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and  the  new  experience  she  unfolded  to  mc. 

It  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  when,  strolling  in  a  melancholy  manner 
through  the  town  I  stopped  at  Mr.  Omer's  door.  Mr.  Omer  had  taken  it  so  much  to 
heart,  his  daughter  told  me,  that  he  had  been  very  low  and  poorly  all  day,  and  had 
gone  to  bed  without  his  pipe. 

'  A  deceitful,  bad-hearted  girl,'  said  Mrs.  Joram.  '  There  was  no  good  in 
her,  ever  !  ' 

'  Don't  say  so,'  I  returned.     '  You  don't  think  so.' 
'  Yes,  I  do  !  '  cried  Mrs.  Joram,  angrily. 
'  No,  no,'  said  I. 

Mrs.  Joram  tossed  her  head,  endeavouring  to  be  very  stern  and  cross  ;  but  she 
could  not  command  her  softer  self,  and  began  to  cry.  I  was  young,  to  be  sure  ;  but 
I  thought  much  the  better  of  her  for  this  sympathy,  and  fancied  it  became  her,  as  a 
virtuous  wife  and  mother,  very  well  indeed. 

'  What  will  she  ever  do  ?  '  sobbed  IMinnie.  '  \Miere  will  she  go  ?  What  will 
become  of  her  ?     Oh,  how  could  she  be  so  cruel,  to  herself  and  him  ?  ' 

I  remembered  the  time  when  Minnie  was  a  young  and  pretty  girl ;  and  I  was  glad 
that  she  remembered  it  too,  so  feelingly. 

'  My  little  Minnie,'  said  Mrs.  Joram,  '  has  only  just  now  been  got  to  sleep.  Even 
in  her  sleep  she  is  sobbing  for  Em'ly.  All  day  long,  little  Minnie  has  cried  for  her, 
and  asked  me,  over  and  over  again,  whether  Em'ly  was  wicked  ?  ^^Tlat  can  I  say  to 
her,  when  Em'ly  tied  a  ribbon  off  her  own  neck  round  little  Minnie's  the  last  night  she 
was  here,  and  laid  her  head  down  on  the  pillow  beside  her  till  she  was  fast  asleep  ? 
The  ribbon  's  round  my  little  Minnie's  neck  now.  It  ought  not  to  be,  perhaps,  but  what 
can  I  do  ?  Em'ly  is  very  bad,  but  they  were  fond  of  one  another.  And  the  child 
knows  nothing  ! ' 

k2 


298  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Mrs.  Joram  was  so  unhappy,  that  hei  husband  came  out  to  take  care  of  her. 
Leaving  them  together,  I  went  home  to  Peggotty's  ;  more  melancholy  myself,  if 
possible,  than  I  had  been  yet. 

That  good  creature — I  mean  Peggotty — all  untired  by  her  late  anxieties  and 
sleepless  nights,  was  at  her  brother's,  where  she  meant  to  stay  till  morning.  An  old 
woman,  who  had  been  employed  about  the  house  for  some  weeks  past,  while  Peggotty 
had  been  unable  to  attend  to  it,  was  the  house's  only  other  occupant  besides  myself. 
As  I  had  no  occasion  for  her  services,  I  sent  her  to  bed,  by  no  means  against  her  will ; 
and  sat  down  before  the  kitchen-fire  a  little  while,  to  think  about  all  this. 

I  was  blending  it  with  the  death-bed  of  the  late  Mr.  Barkis,  and  was  driving  out 
with  the  tide  towards  the  distance  at  which  Ham  had  looked  so  singularly  in  the 
morning,  when  I  was  recalled  from  my  wanderings  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  There  was 
a  knocker  upon  the  door,  but  it  was  not  that  which  made  the  sound.  The  tap  was 
from  a  hand,  and  low  down  upon  the  door,  as  if  it  were  given  by  a  child. 

It  made  me  start  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  the  knock  of  a  footman  to  a  person 
of  distinction.  I  opened  the  door  ;  and  at  first  looked  down,  to  my  amazement,  on 
nothing  Ijut  a  great  umbrella  that  appeared  to  be  walking  about  of  itself.  But  presently 
I  discovered  underneath  it,  Miss  Mowcher. 

I  might  not  have  been  prepared  to  give  the  little  creature  a  very  kind  reception, 
if,  on  her  removing  the  umbrella,  which  her  utmost  efforts  were  unable  to  shut  up,  she 
had  shown  me  the  '  volatile  '  expression  of  face  which  had  made  so  great  an  impression 
on  me  at  our  first  and  last  meeting.  But  her  face,  as  she  turned  it  up  to  mine,  was 
so  earnest ;  and  when  I  relieved  her  of  the  umbrella  (which  would  have  been  an  in- 
convenient one  for  the  Irish  Giant),  she  wrung  her  little  hands  in  such  an  afflicted 
manner  ;    that  I  rather  inclined  towards  her. 

'  Miss  Mowcher  !  '  said  I,  after  glancing  up  and  down  the  empty  street,  without 
distinctly  knowing  what  I  expected  to  see  besides  ;  '  how  do  you  come  here  ?  What 
is  the  matter  ?  ' 

She  motioned  to  me  with  her  short  right  arm,  to  shut  the  umbrella  for  her  ;  and 
passing  me  hurriedly,  went  into  the  kitchen.  When  I  had  closed  the  door,  and  followed, 
with  the  umbrella  in  my  hand,  I  found  her  sitting  on  the  corner  of  the  fender — it 
was  a  low  iron  one,  with  two  flat  bars  at  top  to  stand  plates  upon — in  the  shadow  of 
the  boiler,  swaying  herself  backwards  and  forwards,  and  chafing  her  hands  upon  her 
knees  like  a  person  in  pain. 

Quite  alarmed  at  being  the  only  recipient  of  this  untimely  visit,  and  the  only 
spectator  of  this  portentous  behaviour,  I  exclaimed  again,  '  Pray  tell  me,  Miss  Mowcher, 
what  is  the  matter  !  are  you  ill  ?  ' 

'  My  dear  young  soul,'  returned  Miss  Mowcher,  squeezing  her  hands  upon  her 
heart  one  over  the  other.  '  I  am  ill  here,  I  am  very  ill.  To  think  that  it  should  come 
to  this,  when  I  might  have  known  it  and  perhaps  prevented  it,  if  I  hadn't  been  a 
thoughtless  fool  !  ' 

Again  her  large  bonnet  (very  disproportionate  to  her  figure)  went  backwards 
and  forwards,  in  her  swaying  of  her  little  body  to  and  fro  ;  while  a  most  gigantic 
bonnet  rocked,  in  unison  with  it,  upon  the  wall. 

'  I  am  surprised,'  I  began,  '  to  see  you  so  distressed  and  serious  ' — when  she 
interrupted  me. 

'  Yes,  it 's  always  so  !  *  she  said.  '  They  are  all  surprised,  these  inconsiderate 
young  people,  fairly  and  full  grown,  to  see  any  natural  feeling  in  a  little  thing  like 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  LON(;  JOURNEY  299 

me  I  They  make  u,  pluytliinj^  of  me,  use  me  for  their  ainuscment,  throw  me  away 
when  they  are  tired,  and  wonder  that  I  feel  more  than  a  toy  horse  or  a  wooden  soldier  ! 
Yes,  yes,  that 's  the  way.     T\\c  old  way  !  ' 

'  It  may  be,  with  others,'  I  rctiirnc-d,  '  but  1  do  assure  you  it  is  not  with 
me.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  be  at  all  surprised  to  see  you  as  you  are  now  :  I  know 
so  little  of  you.     I  said,  without  consideration,  what  I  thought.' 

'  What  can  I  do  V  '  returned  the  little  woman,  standing  up,  and  holding  out  her 
arms  to  show  herself.  '  See  1  What  I  am,  my  father  was  ;  and  my  sister  is  ;  and  my 
brother  is.  I  have  worked  for  sister  and  brother  these  many  years — hard,  Mr.  Copper- 
field — all  day.  I  must  live.  I  do  no  harm.  If  there  are  people  so  unreflecting  or 
so  cruel,  as  to  make  a  jest  of  me,  what  is  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  make  a  jest  of  rnjself, 
them,  and  everything  ?  If  I  do  so,  for  the  time,  whose  fault  is  that  ?  Mine  ?  ' 
No.     Not  Miss  Mowcher's,  I  perceived. 

'  If  I  had  shown  myself  a  sensitive  dwarf  to  your  false  friend,'  pursued  the  little 
woman,  shaking  her  head  at  me,  with  reproachful  earnestness,  '  how  much  of  his  help 
or  good-will  do  you  think  /  should  ever  have  had  ?  If  little  Mowcher  (who  had  no 
hand,  young  gentleman,  in  the  making  of  herself)  addressed  herself  to  him,  or  the  like 
of  him,  because  of  her  misfortunes,  when  do  you  suppose  her  small  voice  would  have 
been  heard  ?  Little  Mowcher  would  have  as  much  need  to  live,  if  she  was  the  bitterest 
and  dullest  of  pigmies  ;  but  she  couldn't  do  it.  No.  She  might  whistle  for  her  bread 
and  butter  till  she  died  of  Air.' 

Miss  Mowcher  sat  down  on  the  fender  again,  and  took  out  her  handkerchief, 
and  wiped  her  eyes. 

'  Be  thankful  for  me.  if  you  have  a  kind  heart,  as  I  think  you  have,'  she  said,  '  that 
while  I  know  well  what  I  am,  I  can  be  cheerful  and  endure  it  all.  I  am  thankful  for 
myself,  at  any  rate,  that  I  can  find  my  tiny  way  through  the  world,  without  being 
beholden  to  any  one  ;  and  that  in  return  for  all  that  is  thrown  at  me,  in  folly  or  vanity, 
as  I  go  along,  I  can  throw  bubbles  back.  If  I  don't  brood  over  all  I  want,  it  is  the  better 
for  me,  and  not  the  worse  for  any  one.  If  I  am  a  plaything  for  you  giants,  be  gentle 
with  me.' 

Miss  Mowcher  replaced  her  handkerchief  in  her  pocket,  looking  at  me  with  very 
intent  expression  all  the  while,  and  pursued — 

'  I  saw  you  in  the  street  just  now.  You  may  suppose  I  am  not  able  to  walk  as 
fast  as  you,  with  my  short  legs  and  short  breath,  and  I  couldn't  overtake  j'ou  ;  but  I 
guessed  where  you  came,  and  came  after  you.  I  have  been  here  before,  to-day,  but 
the  good  woman  wasn't  at  home.' 

'  Do  you  know  her  ?  '  I  demanded. 

'  I  know  o/her,  and  about  her,'  she  replied,  '  from  Omer  and  Joram.  I  was  there 
at  seven  o'clock  this  morning.  Do  you  remember  what  Steerforth  said  to  me  about 
this  unfortunate  girl,  that  time  when  I  saw  you  both  at  the  inn  ?  ' 

The  great  bonnet  on  Miss  Mowcher's  head,  and  the  greater  bonnet  on  the  wall, 
began  to  go  backwards  and  forwards  again  when  she  asked  this  question. 

I  remembered  very  well  what  she  referred  to,  having  had  it  in  my  thoughts  many 
times  that  day,     I  told  her  so. 

'  May  the  Father  of  all  Evil  confound  him,'  said  the  little  woman,  holding  up  her 
forefinger  between  me  and  her  sparkling  eyes  ;    '  and  ten  times  more  confound  that 
wicked  servant ;   but  I  believed  it  was  you  who  had  a  boxish  passion  for  her  !  ' 
'  I  ?  '    I  repeated. 


300  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Child,  child  !  In  the  name  of  blind  ili-fortune,'  cried  Miss  Mowcher,  wringing 
her  hands  impatiently,  as  she  went  to  and  fro  again  upon  the  fender,  '  why  did  you 
praise  her  so,  and  blush,  and  look  disturbed  ?  ' 

I  could  not  conceal  from  myself  that  I  had  done  this,  though  for  a  reason  very 
different  from  her  supposition. 

'  What  did  I  know  ?  '  said  Miss  Mowcher,  taking  out  her  handkerchief  again, 
and  giving  one  little  stamp  on  the  ground  whenever,  at  short  intervals,  she  applied 
it  to  her  eyes  with  both  hands  at  once.  '  He  was  crossing  you  and  wheedling  you, 
I  saw ;  and  you  were  soft  wax  in  his  hands,  I  saw.  Had  I  left  the  room  a  minute, 
when  his  man  told  me  that  "  Young  Innocence  "  (so  he  called  you,  and  you  may 
call  him  "  Old  Guilt  "  all  the  days  of  your  life)  had  set  his  heart  upon  her,  and  she 
was  giddy  and  liked  him,  but  his  master  was  resolved  that  no  harm  should  come  of  it — 
more  for  your  sake  than  for  hers — and  that  that  was  their  business  here  ?  How 
could  I  but  believe  him  ?  I  saw  Steerforth  soothe  and  please  you  by  his  praise  of 
her  !  You  were  the  first  to  mention  her  name.  You  owned  to  an  old  admiration  of 
her.  You  were  hot  and  cold,  and  red  and  white,  all  at  once  when  I  spoke  to  you  of 
her.  \^Tiat  could  I  think — what  did  I  think — but  that  j^ou  were  a  young  libertine  in 
everything  but  experience,  and  had  fallen  into  hands  that  had  experience  enough, 
and  could  manage  you  (having  the  fancy)  for  your  own  good  ?  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  They 
were  afraid  of  my  finding  out  the  truth,'  exclaimed  Miss  Mowcher,  getting  off  the 
fender,  and  trotting  up  and  down  the  kitchen  with  her  two  short  arms  distressfully 
lifted  up,  '  because  I  am  a  sharp  little  thing — I  need  be,  to  get  through  the  world  at 
all  ! — and  they  deceived  me  altogether,  and  I  gave  the  poor  unfortunate  girl  a 
letter,  which  I  fully  believe  was  the  beginning  of  her  ever  speaking  to  Littimer,  who 
was  left  behind  on  purpose  !  ' 

I  stood  amazed  at  the  revelation  of  all  this  perfidy,  looking  at  Miss  Mowcher  as 
she  walked  up  and  down  the  kitchen  until  she  was  out  of  breath  :  when  she  sat  upon 
the  fender  again,  and  drying  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  shook  her  head  for  a  long 
time,  without  otherwise  moving,  and  without  breaking  silence. 

'  My  country  rounds,'  she  added  at  length,  '  brought  me  to  Norwich,  Mr. 
Copperfield,  the  night  before  last.  What  I  happened  to  find  out  there,  about  their 
secret  way  of  coming  and  going,  without  you — which  was  strange — led  to  my  sus- 
pecting something  wrong.  I  got  into  the  coach  from  London  last  night,  as  it  came 
through  Norwich,  and  was  here  this  morning.     Oh,  oh,  oh  !   too  late  !  ' 

Poor  little  Mowcher  turned  so  chilly  after  all  her  crying  and  fretting,  that  she 
turned  round  on  the  fender,  putting  her  poor  little  wet  feet  in  among  the  ashes  to 
warm  them,  and  sat  looking  at  the  fire,  like  a  large  doll.  I  sat  in  a  chair  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hearth,  lost  in  unhappy  reflections,  and  looking  at  the  fire  too,  and  some- 
times at  her. 

'  I  must  go,'  she  said  at  last,  rising  as  she  spoke.  '  It 's  late.  You  don't  mistrust 
me?' 

Meeting  her  sharp  glance,  which  was  as  sharp  as  ever  when  she  asked  me,  I  could 
not  on  that  short  challenge  answer  no,  quite  frankly. 

'  Come  !  '  said  she,  accepting  the  offer  of  my  hand  to  help  her  over  the  fender, 
and  looking  wistfully  up  into  my  face,  '  you  know  you  wouldn't  mistrust  me,  if  I  was 
a  full-sized  woman  !  ' 

I  felt  that  there  was  much  truth  in  this  ;    and  I  felt  rather  ashamed  of  myself. 

'  You  are  a  young  man,'  she  said,  nodding.     '  Take  a  word  of  advice,  even  from 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  LONG  JOURNEY  301 

three  foot  nothing.     Try  not  to  associate  bodily  defects  with  mental,  my  good  friend, 
except  for  a  solid  reason.' 

She  had  got  over  the  fender  now,  and  I  had  got  over  my  suspicion.  I  told  her 
that  I  believed  she  had  given  me  a  faithful  account  of  herself,  and  that  we  had  both 
been  hapless  instruments  in  designing  hands.  She  thanked  me,  and  said  I  was  a  good 
fellow. 

'  Now,  mind  !  '  she  exclaimed,  turning  back  on  her  way  to  the  door,  and  looking 
shrewdly  at  me,  with  her  forefinger  up  again.  '  I  have  some  reason  to  suspect,  from 
what  I  have  heard— my  cars  are  always  open  ;  I  can't  afford  to  spare  what  powers  I 
have — that  they  are  gone  al)road.  But  if  ever  they  return,  if  ever  any  one  of  them 
returns,  while  I  am  alive,  I  am  more  likely  than  another,  going  about  as  I  do,  to  find 
it  out  soon.  Whatever  I  know,  you  shall  know.  If  ever  I  can  do  anything  to  serve 
the  poor  betrayed  girl,  I  will  do  it  faithfully,  please  Heaven  I  And  Littimer  had  better 
have  a  bloodhound  at  his  back,  than  little  Mowcher  !  ' 

I  placed  implicit  faith  in  this  last  statement,  when  I  marked  the  look  with  which 
it  was  accompanied. 

'  Trust  me  no  more,  but  trust  me  no  less,  than  you  would  trust  a  full-sized  woman,' 
said  the  little  creature,  touching  me  appealingly  on  the  wrist.  '  If  ever  you  see  me 
again,  unlike  what  I  am  now,  and  like  what  1  was  when  you  first  saw  me,  observe  what 
company  I  am  in.  Call  to  mind  that  I  am  a  very  helpless  and  defenceless  little  thing. 
Think  of  me  at  home  with  my  brother  like  myself  and  sister  like  myself,  when  my 
day's  work  is  done.  Perhaps  you  won't,  then,  be  very  hard  upon  me,  or  surprised  if 
I  can  be  distressed  and  serious.     Good-night !  ' 

I  gave  Miss  Mowcher  my  hand,  with  a  very  different  opinion  of  her  from  that 
which  I  had  hitherto  entertained,  and  opened  the  door  to  let  her  out.  It  was  not 
a  trifling  business  to  get  the  great  umbrella  up,  and  properly  balanced  in  her  grasp  ; 
but  at  last  I  successfully  accomplished  this,  and  saw  it  go  bobbing  down  the  street 
through  the  rain,  without  the  least  appearance  of  having  anybody  underneath  it, 
except  when  a  heavier  fall  than  usual  from  some  overcharged  waterspout  sent  it 
toppling  over,  on  one  side,  and  discovered  Miss  Mowcher  struggling  violently  to  get 
it  right.  After  making  one  of  two  sallies  to  her  relief,  which  were  rendered  futile 
by  the  umbrella's  hopping  on  again,  like  an  immense  bird,  before  I  could  reach  it, 
I  came  in,  went  to  bed,  and  slept  till  morning. 

In  the  morning  I  was  joined  by  Mr.  Peggotty  and  by  my  old  nurse,  and  we  went 
at  an  early  hour  to  the  coach-ofTice,  where  Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Ham  were  waiting  to 
take  leave  of  us. 

'  Mas'r  Davy,'  Ham  whispered,  drawing  me  aside,  while  Mr.  Peggotty  was 
stowing  his  bag  among  the  luggage,  '  his  life  is  quite  broke  up.  He  doen't  know 
wheer  he  's  going  ;  he  doen't  know  what 's  afore  him  ;  he  's  bound  upon  a  voyage 
that  '11  last,  on  and  off,  all  the  rest  of  his  days,  take  my  wured  for  't,  unless  he  finds 
what  he  's  a  seeking  of.     I  am  sure  you  '11  be  a  friend  to  him,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  ' 

'  Trust  me,  I  will  indeed,'  said  I,  shaking  hands  with  Ham  earnestly. 

'  Thank  'ee.  Thank  'ee,  very  kind,  sir.  One  thing  furder.  I  'm  in  good  employ, 
you  know,  Mas'r  Davy,  and  I  han't  no  way  now  of  spending  what  I  gets.  Money's 
of  no  use  to  me  no  more,  except  to  live.  If  you  can  lay  it  out  for  him,  I  shall  do  my 
work  with  a  better  art.  Though  as  to  that,  sir,'  and  he  spoke  very  steadily  and 
mildly,  '  you  're  not  to  think  but  I  shall  work  at  all  times,  like  a  man,  and  act  the 
best  that  lays  in  my  power  !  ' 


302  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  told  him  I  was  well  convinced  of  it ;  and  I  hinted  that  I  hoped  the  time  might 
even  come,  when  he  would  cease  to  lead  the  lonely  life  he  naturally  contemplated 
now. 

'  No,  sir,'  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  '  all  that 's  past  and  over  with  me,  sir.  No 
one  can  never  fill  the  place  that 's  empty.  But  you  '11  bear  in  mind  about  the  money, 
as  theer  's  at  all  times  some  laying  by  for  him  ?  ' 

Reminding  him  of  the  fact,  that  Mr.  Peggotty  derived  a  steady,  though  certainly 
a  very  moderate  income  from  the  bequest  of  his  late  brother-in-law,  I  promised  to 
do  so.  We  then  took  leave  of  each  other.  I  cannot  leave  him  even  now,  without 
remembering  with  a  pang,  at  once  his  modest  fortitude  and  his  great  sorrow. 

As  to  Mrs.  Gummidge,  if  I  were  to  endeavour  to  describe  how  she  ran  down  the 
street  by  the  side  of  the  coach,  seeing  nothing  but  Mr.  Peggotty  on  the  roof,  through 
the  tears  she  tried  to  repress,  and  dashing  herself  against  the  people  who  were  coming 
in  the  opposite  direction,  I  should  enter  on  a  task  of  some  difficulty.  Therefore  I  had 
better  leave  her  sitting  on  a  baker's  door-step,  out  of  breath,  with  no  shape  at  all 
remaining  in  her  bonnet,  and  one  of  her  shoes  off,  lying  on  the  pavement  at  a  con- 
siderable distance. 

When  we  got  to  our  journey's  end,  our  first  pursuit  was  to  look  about  for  a  little 
lodging  for  Peggotty,  where  her  brother  could  have  a  bed.  We  were  so  fortunate 
as  to  find  one,  of  a  very  clean  and  cheap  description,  over  a  chandler's  shop,  only  two 
streets  removed  from  me.  When  we  had  engaged  this  little  domicile,  I  bought  some 
cold  meat  at  an  eating-house,  and  took  my  fellow-travellers  home  to  tea  ;  a  proceed- 
ing, I  regret  to  state,  which  did  not  meet  with  Mrs.  Crupp's  approval,  but  quite  the 
contrary.  I  ought  to  observe,  however,  in  explanation  of  that  lady's  state  of  mind, 
that  she  was  much  offended  by  Peggotty's  tucking  up  her  widow's  gown  before  she 
had  been  ten  minutes  in  the  place,  and  setting  to  work  to  dust  my  bedroom.  This 
Mrs.  Crupp  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  liberty,  and  a  liberty,  she  said,  was  a  thing  she 
never  allowed. 

j\Ir.  Peggotty  had  made  a  communication  to  me  on  the  way  to  London  for  which 
I  was  not  unprepared.  It  was,  that  he  purposed  first  seeing  Mrs.  Steerforth.  As  I 
felt  bound  to  assist  him  in  this,  and  also  to  mediate  between  them  ;  with  the  view 
of  sparing  the  mother's  feelings  as  much  as  possible,  I  wrote  to  her  that  night.  I 
told  her  as  mildly  as  I  could  what  his  wrong  was,  and  what  my  own  share  in  his 
injury.  I  said  he  was  a  man  in  very  common  life,  but  of  a  most  gentle  and  upright 
character  ;  and  that  I  ventured  to  express  a  hope  that  she  would  not  refuse  to  see 
him  in  his  heavy  trouble.  I  mentioned  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  as  the  hour  of 
our  coming,  and  I  sent  the  letter  myself  by  the  first  coach  in  the  morning. 

At  the  appointed  time,  we  stood  at  the  door — the  door  of  that  house  where  I 
had  been,  a  few  days  since,  so  happy  :  where  my  youthful  confidence  and  warmth 
of  heart  had  been  yielded  up  so  freely  :  which  was  closed  against  me  henceforth  : 
which  was  now  a  waste,  a  ruin. 

No  Littimer  appeared.  The  pleasanter  face  which  had  replaced  his,  on  the 
occasion  of  my  last  visit,  answered  to  our  summons,  and  went  before  us  to  the 
drawing-room.  Mrs.  Steerforth  was  sitting  there.  Rosa  Dartle  glided,  as  we  went 
in,  from  another  part  of  the  room,  and  stood  behind  her  chair. 

I  saw,  directly,  in  his  mother's  face,  that  she  knew  from  himself  what  he  had 
done.  It  was  very  pale,  and  bore  the  traces  of  deeper  emotion  than  my  letter  alone, 
weakened  by  the  doubts  her  fondness  would  have  raised  upon  it,  would  have  been 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  A  LONG  JOURNEY  yoy 

likely  to  create.  I  thought  her  more  like  him  than  ever  I  had  thought  her  ;  and  I 
felt,  rather  tiian  saw,  that  the  resemblance  was  not  lost  (jn  my  companion. 

She  sat  upright  in  her  arm-chair,  with  a  stately,  immoveable,  passionless  air, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  disturb.  She  looked  very  steadfastly  at  Mr.  I'eggotty 
when  he  stood  before  her  ;  and  he  looked,  tjuitc  as  steadfastly  at  her.  Uosa  Dartle's 
keen  glance  comprehended  all  of  us.  For  some  moments  not  a  word  was  spoken. 
She  motioned  to  Mr.  Peggotty  to  be  seated.  He  said,  in  a  low  voice,  '  I  shouldn't 
feel  it  nat'ral,  ma'am,  to  sit  down  in  this  house.  I  'd  sooner  stand.'  And  this  was 
succeeded  by  another  silence,  which  she  broke  thus — 

'  I  know,  with  dcci)  regret,  what  has  brought  you  here.  What  do  you  want  of 
me  ?     What  do  you  ask  me  to  do  ?  ' 

He  put  his  hat  under  his  arm,  and  feeling  in  his  breast  for  Emily's  letter,  took  it 
out,  unfolded  it,  and  gave  it  to  her. 

'  Please  to  read  that,  ma'am.     That 's  my  niece's  hand  !  ' 

She  read  it,  in  the  same  stately  and  impassive  way, — untouched  by  its  contents, 
as  far  as  I  could  see, — and  returned  it  to  him. 

'  "  Unless  he  brings  me  back  a  lady,"  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  tracing  out  that  part 
with  his  finger.     '  I  come  to  know,  ma'am,  whether  he  will  keep  his  wured  ?  ' 

'  No,'  she  returned. 

'  Why  not  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  It  is  impossible.  He  would  disgrace  himself.  You  cannot  fail  to  know  that  she 
is  far  below  him.' 

'  Raise  her  up  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  She  is  uneducated  and  ignorant.' 

'  Maybe  she  's  not ;  maybe  she  is,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  /  think  not,  ma'am  ; 
but  I  'm  no  judge  of  them  things.     Teach  her  better  !  ' 

'  Since  you  oblige  me  to  speak  more  plainly,  which  I  am  very  unwilling  to  do, 
her  humble  connections  would  render  such  a  thing  impossible,  if  nothing  else  did.' 

'  Hark  to  this,  ma'am,'  he  returned,  slowly  and  quietly.  '  You  know  what  it 
is  to  love  your  child.  So  do  I.  If  she  was  a  hundred  times  my  child,  I  coiddn't  love 
her  more.  You  doen't  know  what  it  is  to  lose  your  child.  I  do.  All  the  heaps  of 
riches  in  the  wureld  would  be  nowt  to  me  (if  they  was  mine)  to  buy  her  back  !  But  save 
her  from  this  disgrace,  and  she  shall  never  be  disgraced  by  us.  Not  one  of  us  that 
she  's  growed  up  among,  not  one  of  us  that  's  lived  along  with  her,  and  had  her  for 
their  all  in  all,  these  many  year,  will  ever  look  upon  her  pritty  face  again.  We  '11  be 
content  to  let  her  be  ;  we  '11  be  content  to  think  of  her,  far  off,  as  if  she  was  underneath 
another  sun  and  sky  ;  we  '11  be  content  to  trust  her  to  her  husband,— to  her  little 
children,  p'raps, — and  bide  the  time  when  all  of  us  shall  be  alike  in  quality  afore 
our  God  !  ' 

The  rugged  eloquence  with  which  he  spoke,  was  not  devoid  of  all  effect.  She 
still  preserved  her  proud  manner,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  softness  in  her  voice,  as  she 
answered — 

'  I  justify  nothing.  I  make  no  counter-accusations.  But  I  am  sorr\^  to  repeat, 
it  is  impossible.  Such  a  marriage  would  irretrievably  blight  my  son's  career,  and  ruin 
his  prospects.  Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  it  never  can  take  place,  and  never 
will.     If  there  is  any  other  compensation ' 

'  I  am  looking  at  the  likeness  of  the  face,'  interrupted  Mr.  Pegotty,  with  a  steady 
but  a  kindhng  eye,  '  that  has  looked  at  me,  in  my  home,  at  my  fireside,  in  my  boat — 


304  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

wheer  not  ? — smiling  and  friendly,  when  it  was  so  treacherous,  that  I  go  half  wild 
when  I  think  of  it.  If  the  likeness  of  that  face  doen't  turn  to  burning  fire,  at  the 
thought  of  offering  money  to  me  for  my  child's  blight  and  ruin,  it 's  as  bad.  I  doen't 
know,  being  a  lady's,  but  what  it 's  worse.' 

She  changed  now,  in  a  moment.  An  angry  flush  overspread  her  features  ;  and 
she  said,  in  an  intolerant  manner,  grasping  the  arm-chair  tightly  with  her  hands — 

'  What  compensation  can  you  make  to  7ne  for  opening  such  a  pit  between  me  and 
my  son  ?     What  is  your  love  to  mine  ?     What  is  your  separation  to  ours  ?  ' 

Miss  Dartle  softly  touched  her,  and  bent  down  her  head  to  whisper,  but  she  would 
not  hear  a  word. 

'  No,  Rosa,  not  a  word  !  Let  the  man  listen  to  what  I  say  !  My  son,  who  has 
been  the  object  of  my  life,  to  whom  its  every  thought  has  been  devoted,  whom  I  have 
gratified  from  a  child  in  every  wish,  from  whom  I  have  had  no  separate  existence  since 
his  birth, — to  take  up  in  a  moment  with  a  miserable  girl,  and  avoid  me  !  To  repay 
my  confidence  with  systematic  deception,  for  her  sake,  and  quit  me  for  her  !  To 
set  this  wretched  fancy,  against  his  mother's  claims  upon  his  duty,  love,  respect, 
gratitude — claims  that  every  day  and  hour  of  his  life  should  have  strengthened  into 
ties  that  nothing  could  be  proof  against !     Is  this  no  injury  ?  ' 

Again  Rosa  Dartle  tried  to  soothe  her  ;   again  ineffectually. 

'  I  say,  Rosa,  not  a  word  !  If  he  can  stake  his  all  upon  the  lightest  object,  I  can 
stake  my  all  upon  a  greater  purpose.  Let  him  go  where  he  will,  with  the  means  that 
my  love  has  secured  to  him  !  Does  he  think  to  reduce  me  by  long  absence  ?  He 
knows  his  mother  very  little  if  he  does.  Let  him  put  away  his  whim  now,  and  he  is 
welcome  back.  Let  him  not  put  her  away  now,  and  he  never  shall  come  near  me, 
living  or  dying,  while  I  can  raise  my  hand  to  make  a  sign  against  it,  unless,  being  rid 
of  her  for  ever,  he  comes  humbly  to  me  and  begs  for  my  forgiveness.  This  is  my  right. 
This  is  the  acknowledgment  I  will  have.  This  is  the  separation  that  there  is  between 
us  !  And  is  this,'  she  added,  looking  at  her  visitor  with  the  proud  intolerant  air 
with  which  she  had  begun,  '  no  injury  ?  ' 

While  I  heard  and  saw  the  mother  as  she  said  these  words,  I  seemed  to  hear  and 
see  the  son,  defying  them.  All  that  I  had  ever  seen  in  him  of  an  unyielding,  wilful 
spirit,  I  saw  in  her.  All  the  understanding  that  I  had  now  of  his  misdirected  energy, 
became  an  understanding  of  her  character  too,  and  a  perception  that  it  was,  in  its 
strongest  springs,  the  same. 

She  now  observed  to  me,  aloud,  resuming  her  former  restraint,  that  it  was  useless 
to  hear  more,  or  to  say  more,  and  that  she  begged  to  put  an  end  to  the  interview. 
She  rose  with  an  air  of  dignity  to  leave  the  room,  when  Mr.  Peggotty  signified  that  it 
was  needless. 

'  Doen't  fear  me  being  any  hindrance  to  you,  I  have  no  more  to  say,  ma'am,' 
he  remarked  as  he  moved  towards  the  door.  '  I  come  heer  with  no  hope,  and  I  take 
away  no  hope.  I  have  done  what  I  thowt  should  be  done,  but  I  never  looked  fur  any 
good  to  come  of  my  stan'ning  where  I  do.  This  has  been  too  evil  a  house  fur  me  and 
mine,  fur  me  to  be  in  my  right  senses  and  expect  it.' 

With  this,  we  departed  ;  leaving  her  standing  by  her  elbow-chair,  a  picture  of  a 
noble  presence  and  a  handsome  face. 

We  had,  on  our  way  out,  to  cross  a  paved  hall,  with  glass  sides  and  roof,  over 
which  a  vine  was  trained.  Its  leaves  and  shoots  were  green  then,  and  the  day  being 
sunny,  a  pair  of  glass  doors  leading  to  the  garden  were  thrown  open.     Rosa  Dartle, 


THE  BEGINNING  OE  A  LONG  JOURNEY  305 

entering  this  way  with  a  noiseless  step,  when  we  were  close  to  thenn,  addressed  herself 
to  me — 

'  You  do  well,'  she  said,  '  indeed,  to  bring  this  fellow  here  !  ' 

Such  a  concentration  of  rage  and  scorn  as  darkened  her  face,  and  flashed  in  her 
jet-black  eyes,  I  could  not  have  thought  compressible  even  into  that  face.  The  scar 
made  by  the  hanuner  was,  as  usual  in  this  excited  state  of  her  features,  strongly  marked. 
When  the  throbbing  I  had  seen  before,  came  into  it  as  I  looked  at  her,  she  absolutely 
lifted  up  her  hand  and  struck  it. 

'  This  is  a  fellow,'  she  said,  '  to  champion  and  bring  here,  is  he  not  ?  You  are  a 
true  man  !  ' 

'  Miss  Dartle,'  I  returned,  '  you  are  surely  not  so  unjust  as  to  condemn  me  ?  ' 

'  Why  do  you  bring  division  between  these  two  mad  creatures  ?  '  she  returned. 
'  Don't  you  know  that  they  are  both  mad  with  their  own  self-will  and  pride  ?  ' 

'  Is  it  my  doing  ?  '  I  returned. 

'  Is  it  your  doing  !  '  she  retorted.     '  Why  do  you  bring  this  man  here  ?  ' 

'  He  is  a  deeply  injured  man,  Miss  Dartle,'  I  replied.     '  You  may  not  know  it.' 

'  I  know  that  James  Steerforth,'  she  said,  with  her  hand  on  her  bosom,  as  if  to 
prevent  the  storm  that  was  raging  there,  from  being  loud,  '  has  a  false,  corrupt  heart, 
and  is  a  traitor.  But  what  need  I  know  or  care  about  this  fellow,  and  his  common 
niece  ?  ' 

'  Miss  Dartle,'  I  returned,  '  you  deepen  the  injury.  It  is  sufficient  already.  I 
will  only  say,  at  parting,  that  you  do  him  a  great  wrong.' 

'  I  do  him  no  wrong,'  she  returned.  '  They  are  a  depraved,  worthless  set.  I 
would  have  her  whipped  !  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty  passed  on,  without  a  word,  and  went  out  at  the  door. 

'  Oh,  shame.  Miss  Dartle  !  shame  !  '  I  said  indignantly.  '  How  can  you  bear 
to  trample  on  his  undeserved  aflliction  ?  ' 

'  I  would  trample  on  them  all,'  she  answered.  '  I  would  have  his  house  pulled 
down.  I  would  have  her  branded  on  the  face,  drest  in  rags,  and  cast  out  in  the 
streets  to  starve.  If  I  had  the  power  to  sit  in  judgment  on  her,  I  would  see  it  done. 
See  it  done  ?  I  would  do  it  !  I  detest  her.  If  I  ever  could  reproach  her  ^\^th  her 
infamous  condition,  I  would  go  anywhere  to  do  so.  If  I  could  hunt  her  to  her 
grave,  I  would.  If  there  was  any  word  of  comfort  that  would  be  a  solace  to  her  in 
her  d}'ing  hour,  and  only  I  possessed  it,  I  wouldn't  part  with  it  for  life  itself.' 

The  mere  vehemence  of  her  words  can  convey,  I  am  sensible,  but  a  weak  impres- 
sion of  the  passion  by  which  she  was  possessed,  and  which  made  itself  articulate  in 
her  whole  figure,  though  her  voice,  instead  of  being  raised,  was  lower  than  usual.  No 
description  I  could  give  of  her  would  do  justice  to  my  recollection  of  her,  or  to  her 
entire  deliverance  of  herself  to  her  anger.  I  have  seen  passion  in  many  forms,  but  I 
have  never  seen  it  in  such  a  form  as  that. 

WTien  I  joined  Mr.  Peggotty,  he  was  walking  slowly  and  thoughtfully  down  the 
hill.  He  told  me,  as  soon  as  I  came  up  with  him,  that  having  now  discharged  his 
mind  of  what  he  had  purposed  doing  in  London,  he  meant  '  to  set  out  on  his  travels,' 
that  night.  I  asked  him  where  he  meant  to  go  ?  He  only  answered,  '  I  'm  a  going, 
sir,  to  seek  my  niece.' 

We  went  back  to  the  little  lodging  over  the  chandler's  shop,  and  there  I  found 
an  opportunity  of  repeating  to  Peggotty  what  he  had  said  to  me.  She  informed  me, 
in  return,  that  he  had  said  the  same  to  her  that  morning.     She  knew  no  more  than  I 


306  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

did,  where  he  was  going,  but  she  thought  he  had  some  project  shaped  out  in  his 
mind. 

I  did  not  Hke  to  leave  him,  under  such  circumstances,  and  we  all  three  dined 
together  off  a  beefsteak  pie — which  was  one  of  the  many  good  things  for  which 
Peggotty  was  famous — and  which  was  curiously  flavoured  on  this  occasion,  I  recollect 
well,  by  a  miscellaneous  taste  of  tea,  coffee,  butter,  bacon,  cheese,  new  loaves,  fire- 
wood, candles,  and  walnut  ketchup,  continually  ascending  from  the  shop.  After 
dinner  we  sat  for  an  hour  or  so  near  the  window,  without  talking  much  ;  and  then 
Mr.  Peggotty  got  up,  and  brought  his  oilskin  bag  and  his  stout  stick,  and  laid  them 
on  the  table. 

He  accepted,  from  his  sister's  stock  of  ready  money,  a  small  sum  on  account  of 
his  legacy  ;  barely  enough,  I  should  have  thought,  to  keep  him  for  a  month.  He 
promised  to  communicate  with  me,  when  anything  befell  him  ;  and  he  slung  his  bag 
about  him,  took  his  hat  and  stick,  and  bade  us  both  '  Good-bye  !  ' 

'  All  good  attend  you,  dear  old  woman,'  he  said,  embracing  Peggotty,  '  and  you 
too,  Mas'r  Davy  !  '  shaking  hands  with  me.  '  I  'm  a  going  to  seek  her,  fur  and  wide. 
If  she  should  come  home  while  I  'm  away — but  ah,  that  ain't  like  to  be  ! — or  if  I 
should  bring  her  back,  my  meaning  is,  that  she  and  me  shall  live  and  die  where  no  one 
can't  reproach  her.  If  any  hurt  should  come  to  me,  remember  that  the  last  words 
I  left  for  her  was,  "  My  unchanged  love  is  with  my  darling  child,  and  I  forgive  her  !  "  ' 

He  said  this  solemnly,  bare-headed  ;  then,  putting  on  his  hat,  he  went  down  the 
stairs,  and  away.  We  followed  to  the  door.  It  was  a  warm,  dusty  evening,  just  the 
time  when,  in  the  great  main  thoroughfare  out  of  which  that  by-way  turned,  there 
was  a  temporary  lull  in  the  eternal  tread  of  feet  upon  the  pavement,  and  a  strong  red 
sunshine.  He  turned,  alone,  at  the  corner  of  our  shady  street,  into  a  glow  of  light, 
in  which  we  lost  him. 

Rarely  did  that  hour  of  the  evening  come,  rarely  did  I  wake  at  night,  rarely  did 
I  look  up  at  the  moon,  or  stars,  or  watch  the  falling  rain,  or  hear  the  wind,  but  I 
thought  of  his  solitary  figure  toiling  on,  poor  pilgrim,  and  recalled  the  words — 

'  I  'm  a  going  to  seek  her,  fur  and  wide.  If  any  hurt  should  come  to  me, 
remember  that  the  last  words  I  left  for  her  was,  "  My  unchanged  love  is  with  my 
darling  child,  and  I  forgive  her  !  "  ' 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

BLISSFUL 

yA  LL  this  time,  I  had  gone  on  loving  Dora,  harder  than  ever.  Her  idea  was 
/^  my  refuge  in  disappointment  and  distress,  and  made  some  amends  to 
r — %  me,  even  for  the  loss  of  my  friend.  The  more  I  pitied  myself,  or  pitied 
-A-  -^-  others,  the  more  I  sought  for  consolation  in  the  image  of  Dora.  The 
greater  the  accumulation  of  deceit  and  trouble  in  the  world,  the  brighter  and  the 
purer  shone  the  star  of  Dora  high  above  the  world.  I  don't  think  I  had  any  definite 
idea  where  Dora  came  from  or  in  what  degree  she  was  related  to  a  higher  order  of 
beings  ;  but  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  have  scouted  the  notion  of  her  being  simply 
human,  like  any  other  young  lady,  with  indignation  and  contempt. 


BLISSFUL  807 

If  I  may  so  express  it,  I  was  steeped  in  Dora.  I  was  not  merely  over  head  and 
ears  in  love  with  her,  hut  I  was  saturated  throu^jh  and  through.  Enough  love  might 
have  been  wrung  out  of  me,  mct.iphorieally  sjieakiug,  to  drown  anyhody  in  ;  and 
yet  there  would  have  remained  enough  within  me,  and  all  over  me,  to  pervade  my 
entire  existence. 

The  first  thing  I  did,  on  my  own  aeeount,  when  I  eame  baek,  was  to  take  a  night- 
walk  to  Norwood,  and,  like  the  subject  of  a  venerable  riddle  of  my  childhood,  to  go 
'  round  and  round  the  house,  without  ever  touching  the  house,'  thinking  about  Dora- 
I  believe  the  theme  of  this  incomprehensible  conundrum  was  the  moon.  No  matter 
what  it  was,  I,  the  moon-struck  slave  of  Dora,  perambulated  round  and  round  the 
house  and  garden  for  two  hours,  looking  through  crevices  in  the  palings,  getting  my 
chin  by  dint  of  violent  exertion  aliove  the  rusty  nails  on  the  top,  blowing  kisses  at 
the  lights  in  the  windows,  and  romantically  calling  on  the  night,  at  intervals,  to  shield 
my  Dora — I  don't  exactly  know  what  from,  I  suppose  from  fire.  Perhaps  from  mice, 
to  which  she  had  a  great  objection. 

My  love  was  so  much  on  my  mind,  and  it  was  so  natural  to  me  to  confide  in 
Peggotty,  when  I  found  her  again  by  my  side  of  an  evening  with  the  old  set  of 
industrial  implements,  busily  making  the  tour  of  my  wardrobe,  that  I  imparted  to  her 
in  a  sufliciently  roundabout  way,  my  great  secret.  Peggotty  was  strongly  interested, 
but  I  could  not  get  her  into  my  view  of  the  case  at  all.  She  was  audaciously 
prejudiced  in  my  favour,  and  quite  unable  to  understand  why  I  should  have  any 
misgivings,  or  be  low-spirited  about  it.  '  The  young  lady  might  think  herself  well 
off,'  she  observed,  '  to  have  such  a  beau.  And  as  to  her  pa,'  she  said,  '  what  did  the 
gentleman  expect,  for  gracious  sake  !  ' 

I  observed,  however,  that  Mr.  Spenlow's  proctorial  gown  and  stiff  cravat  took 
Peggotty  down  a  little,  and  inspired  her  with  a  greater  reverence  for  the  man  who 
was  gradually  becoming  more  and  more  etherealised  in  my  eyes  every  day,  and  about 
whom  a  reflected  radiance  seemed  to  me  to  beam  when  he  sat  erect  in  Court  among 
his  papers,  like  a  little  lighthouse  in  a  sea  of  stationery.  And  by  the  bye,  it  used  to 
be  uncommonly  strange  to  me  to  consider,  I  remember,  as  I  sat  in  Court  too,  how  those 
dim  old  judges  and  doctors  wouldn't  have  cared  for  Dora,  if  they  had  known  her  ; 
how  they  wouldn't  have  gone  out  of  their  senses  with  rapture,  if  marriage  with  Dora 
had  been  proposed  to  them  ;  how  Dora  might  have  sung  and  played  upon  that 
glorified  guitar,  until  she  led  me  to  the  verge  of  madness,  yet  not  have  tempted  one 
of  those  slow-goers  an  inch  out  of  his  road  ! 

I  despised  them,  to  a  man.  Frozen-out  old  gardeners  in  the  flower-beds  of  the 
heart,  I  took  a  personal  offence  against  them  all.  The  Bench  was  nothing  to  me  but 
an  insensible  blunderer.  The  Bar  had  no  more  tenderness  or  poetry  in  it,  than  the 
bar  of  a  public-house. 

Taking  the  management  of  Peggotty's  affairs  into  my  own  hands,  Mith  no  little 
pride,  I  proved  the  will,  and  came  to  a  settlement  with  the  Legacy  Duty  Office,  and 
took  her  to  the  Bank,  and  soon  got  everything  into  an  orderly  train.  We  varied  the 
legal  character  of  these  proceedings  by  going  to  see  some  perspiring  wax-work,  in 
Fleet  Street  (melted,  I  should  hope,  these  twenty  years)  ;  and  by  visiting  Miss 
Linwood's  Exhibition,  which  I  remember  as  a  mausoleum  of  needlework,  favourable 
to  self-examination  and  repentance  ;  and  by  inspecting  the  Tower  of  London  ;  and 
going  to  the  top  of  St.  Paul's.  All  these  wonders  afforded  Peggotty  as  much  pleasure 
as  she  was  able  to  enjoy,  under  existing  circumstances  :    except,  I  think,  St.  Paul's, 


308  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

which,  from  her  long  attachment  to  her  woi'kbox,  became  a  rival  of  the  picture  on  the 
lid,  and  was,  in  some  particulars,  vanquished,  she  considered,  by  that  work  of  art. 

Peggotty's  business,  which  was  what  we  used  to  call  '  common-form  business  ' 
in  the  Commons  (and  very  light  and  lucrative  the  common-form  business  was),  being 
settled,  I  took  her  down  to  the  office  one  morning  to  pay  her  bill.  Mr.  Spenlow 
had  stepped  out,  old  Tiffey  said,  to  get  a  gentleman  sworn  for  a  marriage  licence  ; 
but  as  I  knew  he  would  be  back  directly,  our  place  lying  close  to  the  Surrogate's,  and 
to  the  Vicar-General's  Office  too,  I  told  Peggotty  to  wait. 

We  were  a  little  like  undertakers,  in  the  Commons,  as  regarded  Probate  trans- 
actions ;  generally  making  it  a  rule  to  look  more  or  less  cut  up,  when  we  had  to  deal 
with  clients  in  mourning.  In  a  similar  feeling  of  delicacy,  we  were  always  blithe  and 
light-hearted  with  the  licence  clients.  Therefore  I  hinted  to  Peggotty  that  she  would 
find  Mr.  Spenlow  much  recovered  from  the  shock  of  Mr.  Barkis's  decease  ;  and  indeed 
he  came  in  like  a  bridegroom. 

But  neither  Peggotty  nor  I  had  eyes  for  him,  when  we  saw,  in  company  with 
him,  Mr.  Murdstone.  He  was  very  little  changed.  His  hair  looked  as  thick,  and  was 
certainly  as  black,  as  ever  ;   and  his  glance  was  as  little  to  be  trusted  as  of  old. 

'  Ah,  Copperfield  ?  '  said  Mr.  Spenlow.     '  You  know  this  gentleman,  I  believe  ?  ' 

I  made  my  gentleman  a  distant  bow,  and  Peggotty  barely  recognised  him.  He 
was,  at  first,  somewhat  disconcerted  to  meet  us  two  together  ;  but  quickly  decided 
what  to  do,  and  came  up  to  me. 

'  I  hope,'  he  said,  '  that  you  are  doing  well  ?  ' 

'  It  can  hardly  be  interesting  to  you,'  said  I.     '  Yes,  if  you  wish  to  know.' 

We  looked  at  each  other,  and  he  addressed  himself  to  Peggotty. 

'  And  you,'  said  he.     '  I  am  sorry  to  observe  that  you  have  lost  your  husband.' 

'  It 's  not  the  first  loss  I  have  had  in  my  life,  Mr.  Murdstone,'  replied  Peggotty, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot.  '  I  am  glad  to  hope  that  there  is  nobody  to  blame  for 
this  one, — nobody  to  answer  for  it.' 

'  Ha  !  '  said  he  ;    '  that 's  a  comfortable  reflection.     You  have  done  your  duty  ?  ' 

'  I  have  not  worn  anybody's  life  away,'  said  Peggotty,  '  I  am  thankful  to  think  ! 
No,  Mr.  Murdstone,  I  have  not  worrited  and  frightened  any  sweet  creetur  to  an  early 
grave  !  ' 

He  eyed  her  gloomily — remorsefully  I  thought — for  an  instant ;  and  said,  turning 
his  head  towards  me,  but  looking  at  my  feet  instead  of  my  face — 

'  We  are  not  likely  to  encounter  soon  again  ;  a  source  of  satisfaction  to  us  both, 
no  doubt,  for  such  meetings  as  this  can  never  be  agreeable.  I  do  not  expect  that  you, 
who  always  rebelled  against  my  just  authority,  exerted  for  your  benefit  and  reforma- 
tion, should  owe  me  any  good-will  now.     There  is  an  antipathy  between  us ' 

'  An  old  one,  I  believe,'  said  I,  interrupting  him. 

He  smiled,  and  shot  as  evil  a  glance  at  me  as  could  come  from  his  dark  eyes. 

'  It  rankled  in  your  baby  breast,'  he  said.  '  It  embittered  the  life  of  your  poor 
mother.  You  are  right.  I  hope  you  may  do  better,  yet ;  I  hope  you  may  correct 
yourself.' 

Here  he  ended  the  dialogue,  which  had  been  carried  on  in  a  low  voice,  in  a 
corner  of  the  outer  office,  by  passing  into  Mr.  Spenlow's  room,  and  saying  aloud, 
in  his  smoothest  manner — 

'  Gentlemen  of  Mr.  Spenlow's  profession  are  accustomed  to  family  differences, 
and  know  how  complicated  and  difficult  they  always  are  !  '     With  that,  he  paid  the 


BLISSFUL  309 

money  for  his  licence  ;  and,  rcceivinjr  it  iically  folded  from  Mr.  Spenlow,  tof^elher 
with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  a  jwlite  wish  for  his  happiness  and  the  lady's,  went  out 
of  the  odice. 

I  mif^ht  have  had  more  difficulty  in  constrainirifj  myself  to  he  silent  under  his 
words,  if  1  had  lunl  less  dilliculty  in  impressing  upon  l*e{{f,'otty  (who  was  only  angry 
on  my  account,  good  creature  !)  that  we  were  not  in  a  place  for  recrimination,  and 
that  I  besought  her  to  hold  her  peace.  She  was  so  imusualiy  roused,  that  I  was  glad 
to  compound  for  an  affectionate  hug,  elicited  by  this  revival  in  her  mind  of  our  old 
injuries,  and  to  make  the  best  I  could  of  it,  before  Mr.  Spenlow  and  the  clerks. 

Mr.  Spenlow  did  not  appear  to  know  what  the  connection  between  Mr.  Murdstone 
and  myself  was  ;  which  I  was  glad  of,  for  I  could  not  bear  to  acknowledge  him,  even 
in  my  own  breast,  remembering  what  I  did  of  the  history  of  my  poor  mother.  Mr. 
Spenlow  seemed  to  think,  if  he  thought  anything  about  the  matter,  that  my  aunt  was 
the  leader  of  the  state  party  in  our  family,  and  that  there  was  a  rebel  party  commanded 
by  somebody  else — so  I  gathered  at  least  from  what  he  said,  while  we  were  waiting  for 
Mr.  Tiffey  to  make  out  Peggotty's  bill  of  costs. 

'  Miss  Trotwood,'  he  remarked,  '  is  very  firm,  no  doubt,  and  not  likely  to  give  way 
to  opposition.  I  have  an  admiration  for  her  character,  and  I  may  congratulate  you, 
Copperfield,  on  being  on  the  right  side.  Differences  between  relations  are  much  to  be 
deplored — but  they  are  extremely  general — and  the  great  thing  is,  to  be  on  the  right 
side '  :   meaning,  I  take  it,  on  the  side  of  the  moneyed  interest. 

'  Rather  a  good  marriage  this,  I  believe  ?  '  said  Mr.  Spenlow. 

I  explained  that  I  knew  nothing  about  it. 

'  Indeed  !  '  he  said.  '  Speaking  from  the  few  words  Mr.  Murdstone  dropped — 
as  a  man  frequently  does  on  these  occasions — and  from  what  Miss  Murdstone  let  fall, 
I  should  say  it  was  rather  a  good  marriage.' 

'  Do  you  mean  that  there  is  money,  sir  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  Yes,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  '  I  understand  there  's  money.     Beauty  too,  I  am  told.' 

'  Indeed  !     Is  his  new  wife  young  ?  ' 

'  Just  of  age,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  '  So  lately,  that  I  should  think  they  had  been 
waiting  for  that.' 

'  Lord  deliver  her  !  '  said  Peggotty.  So  very  emphatically  and  unexpectedly, 
that  we  were  all  three  discomposed  ;   until  Tiffey  came  in  with  the  bill. 

Old  Tiffey  soon  appeared,  however,  and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Spenlow,  to  look  over. 
Mr.  Spenlow,  settling  his  chin  in  his  cravat  and  rubbing  it  softly,  went  over  the  items 
with  a  deprecatory  air — as  if  it  were  all  Jorkins's  doing — and  handed  it  back  to  Tiffey 
with  a  bland  sigh. 

'  Yes,'  he  said.  '  That 's  right.  Quite  right.  I  should  have  been  extremely 
happy,  Copperfield,  to  have  limited  these  charges  to  the  actual  expenditure  out  of 
pocket,  but  it  is  an  irksome  incident  in  my  professional  life,  that  I  am  not  at  liberty  to 
consult  my  own  wishes.     I  have  a  partner— Mr.  Jorkins.' 

As  he  said  this  with  a  gentle  melancholy,  which  was  the  next  thing  to  making  no 
charge  at  all,  I  expressed  my  acknowledgments  on  Peggotty's  behalf,  and  paid  Tiffey 
in  bank-notes.  Peggotty  then  retired  to  her  lodging,  and  Mr.  Spenlow  and  I  went  into 
Court,  where  we  had  a  divorce  suit  coming  on,  under  an  ingenious  little  statute  (repealed 
now,  I  beheve,  but  in  virtue  of  which  I  have  seen  several  marriages  annulled),  of  which 
the  merits  were  these.  The  husband,  whose  name  was  Thomas  Benjamin,  had  taken 
out  his  marriage  licence  as  Thomas  only  ;  suppressing  the  Benjamin,  in  case  he  should 


310  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

not  find  himself  as  comfortable  as  he  expected.  Not  finding  himself  as  comfortable 
as  he  expected,  or  being  a  little  fatigued  with  his  wife,  poor  fellow,  he  now  came  forward, 
by  a  friend,  after  being  married  a  year  or  two,  and  declared  that  his  name  was  Thomas 
Benjamin,  and  therefore  he  was  not  married  at  all.  Which  the  Court  confirmed,  to 
his  great  satisfaction. 

I  must  say  that  I  had  my  doubts  about  the  strict  justice  of  this,  and  was  not 
even  frightened  out  of  them  by  the  bushel  of  wheat  which  reconciles  all  anomalies. 

But  Mr.  Spenlow  argued  the  matter  with  me.  He  said,  Look  at  the  world,  there 
was  good  and  evil  in  that ;  look  at  the  ecclesiastical  law,  there  was  good  and  evil  in 
that.     It  was  all  part  of  a  system.     Very  good.     There  you  were  ! 

I  had  not  the  hardihood  to  suggest  to  Dora's  father  that  possibly  we  might  even 
improve  the  world  a  little,  if  we  got  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  took  off  our  coats 
to  the  work  ;  but  I  confessed  that  I  thought  we  might  improve  the  Commons.  Mr. 
Spenlow  replied  that  he  would  particularly  advise  me  to  dismiss  that  idea  from  my 
mind,  as  not  being  worthy  of  my  gentlemanly  character  ;  but  that  he  would  be  glad 
to  hear  from  me  of  what  improvement  I  thought  the  Commons  susceptible  ? 

Taking  that  part  of  the  Commons  which  happened  to  be  nearest  to  us — ^for  om* 
man  was  unmarried  by  this  time,  and  we  were  out  of  Coiirt,  and  strolling  past  the 
Prerogative  Office — I  submitted  that  I  thought  the  Prerogative  Office  rather  a  queerly 
managed  institution.  Mr.  Spenlow  inquired  in  what  respect  ?  I  replied,  with  all  due 
deference  to  his  experience  (but  with  more  deference,  I  am  afraid,  to  his  being  Dora's 
father),  that  perhaps  it  was  a  little  nonsensical  that  the  Registry  of  that  Court,  con- 
taining the  original  wills  of  all  persons  leaving  effects  within  the  immense  province  of 
Canterbury,  for  three  whole  centuries,  should  be  an  accidental  building,  never  designed 
for  the  purpose,  leased  by  the  registrars  for  their  own  private  emolument,  unsafe,  not 
even  ascertained  to  be  fire-proof,  choked  with  the  important  documents  it  held,  and 
positively,  from  the  roof  to  the  basement,  a  mercenary  speculation  of  the  registrars, 
who  took  great  fees  from  the  public,  and  crammed  the  public's  wills  away  anyhow  and 
anywhere,  having  no  other  object  than  to  get  rid  of  them  cheaply.  That,  perhaps,  it 
was  a  little  unreasonable  that  these  registrars  in  the  receipt  of  profits  amounting  to 
eight  or  nine  thousand  pounds  a  year  (to  say  nothing  of  the  profits  of  the  deputy- 
registrars,  and  clerks  of  seats),  should  not  be  obliged  to  spend  a  little  of  that  money, 
in  finding  a  reasonably  safe  place  for  the  important  documents  which  all  classes  of 
people  were  compelled  to  hand  over  to  them,  whether  they  would  or  no.  That, 
perhaps,  it  was  a  little  unjust  that  all  the  great  offices  in  this  great  office,  should  be 
magnificent  sinecures,  while  the  unfortunate  working-clerks  in  the  cold  dark  room 
upstairs  were  the  worst  rewarded,  and  the  least  considered  men,  doing  important 
services,  in  London.  That  perhaps  it  was  a  little  indecent  that  the  principal  registrar 
of  all,  whose  duty  it  was  to  find  the  public,  constantly  resorting  to  this  place,  all  needful 
accommodation,  should  be  an  enormous  sinecurist  in  virtue  of  that  post  (and  might  be, 
besides,  a  clergyman,  a  pluralist,  the  holder  of  a  stall  in  a  cathedral,  and  what  not), 
while  the  public  was  put  to  the  inconvenience  of  which  we  had  a  specimen  every 
afternoon  when  the  office  was  busy,  and  which  we  knew  to  be  quite  monstrous. 
That,  perhaps,  in  short,  this  Prerogative  Office  of  the  diocese  of  Canterbury  was 
altogether  such  a  pestilent  job,  and  such  a  pernicious  absurdity,  that  but  for  its  being 
squeezed  away  in  a  corner  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  which  few  people  knew,  it  must 
have  been  turned  completely  inside  out,  and  upside  down,  long  ago. 

Mr.  Spenlow  smiled  as  I  became  modestly  warm  on  the  subject,  and  then  argued 
this  question  with  mo  as  he  had  argued  the  other.     He  said,  what  was  it  after  all  ? 


BLISSFUL  811 

It  was  a  question  of  feclinp.  If  the  public  felt  that  their  wills  were  in  safe  keeping, 
and^took  it  for  f^ranteil  that  the  olliee  was  not  to  he  made  hctter,  who  was  the  worse 
for  it  ?  Nobody.  Who  was  the  better  for  it  ?  All  the  sineeurists.  Very  well. 
Then  the  good  predominated.  It  might  not  be  a  [perfect  system  ;  nothing  was  perfect  ; 
but  what  he  objected  to,  was,  the  insertion  of  the  wedge.  Under  the  Prerogative 
Office,  the  country  had  been  glorious.  Insert  the  wedge  into  the  Prerogative  Office,  and 
the  country  would  cease  to  be  glorious.  lie  considered  it  the  principle  of  a  gentle- 
man to  take  things  as  he  found  them  ;  and  he  had  no  douht  the  Prerogative  Office 
would  last  our  time.  I  deferred  to  his  opinion,  though  I  had  great  doubts  of  it  myself. 
I  find  he  was  right,  however  ;  for  it  has  not  only  lasted  to  the  present  moment,  but 
has  done  so  in  the  teeth  of  a  great  parliamentary  report  made  (not  too  willingly) 
eighteen  years  ago,  when  all  these  objections  of  mine  were  set  forth  in  detail,  and 
when  the  existing  stowage  for  wills  was  described  as  equal  to  the  accumulation  of  only 
two  years  and  a  half  more.  What  they  have  done  with  them  since  ;  whether  they 
have  lost  many,  or  whether  they  sell  any,  now  and  then,  to  the  butter-shops  ;  I  don't 
know.     I  am  glad  mine  is  not  there,  and  I  hope  it  may  not  go  there,  yet  awhile. 

I  have  set  all  this  down,  in  my  present  blissful  chapter,  because  here  it  comes 
into  its  natural  place.  Mr.  Spenlow  and  I  falling  into  this  conversation,  prolonged  it 
and  our  saunter  to  and  fro,  until  we  diverged  into  general  topics.  And  so  it  came 
about,  in  the  end,  that  Mr.  Spenlow  told  me  this  day  week  was  Dora's  birthday,  and 
he  would  be  glad  if  I  would  come  down  and  join  a  little  pie-nie  on  the  occasion.  I 
went  out  of  my  senses  immediately  ;  became  a  mere  driveller  next  day,  on  receipt  of 
a  little  lace-edged  sheet  of  note-paper,  '  Favoured  by  papa.  To  remind  '  ;  and  passed 
the  intervening  period  in  a  state  of  dotage. 

I  think  I  committed  every  possible  absurdity,  in  the  way  of  preparation  for  this 
blessed  event.  I  turn  hot  when  I  remember  the  cravat  I  bought.  My  boots  might 
be  placed  in  any  collection  of  instruments  of  torture.  I  provided,  and  sent  down  by 
the  Norwood  coach  the  night  before,  a  delicate  little  hamjier,  amounting  in  itself,  I 
thought,  almost  to  a  declaration.  There  were  crackers  in  it  with  the  tenderest 
mottoes  that  could  be  got  for  money.  At  six  in  the  morning,  I  was  in  Covent  Garden 
Market,  buying  a  bouquet  for  Dora.  At  ten  I  was  on  horseback  (I  hired  a  gallant 
grey,  for  the  occasion),  with  the  bouquet  in  my  hat,  to  keep  it  fresh,  trotting  down 
to  Norwood. 

I  suppose  that  when  I  saw  Dora  in  the  garden  and  pretended  not  to  see  her,  and 
rode  past  the  house  pretending  to  be  anxiously  looking  for  it,  I  committed  two  small 
fooleries  which  other  young  gentlemen  in  my  circumstances  might  have  committed 
— because  they  came  so  very  natural  to  me.  But  oh  !  when  I  did  find  the  house,  and 
did  dismount  at  the  garden  gate,  and  drag  those  stony-hearted  boots  across  the  lawn 
to  Dora  sitting  on  a  garden  seat  under  a  lilac-tree,  what  a  spectacle  she  was,  upon 
that  beautiful  morning,  among  the  butterflies,  in  a  white  chip  bonnet  and  a  dress  of 
celestial  blue  ! 

There  was  a  young  lady  with  her — comparatively  stricken  in  years — almost  twenty , 
I  should  say.  Her  name  was  Miss  Mills,  and  Dora  called  her  Julia.  She  was  the 
bosom  friend  of  Dora.     Happy  Miss  Mills  1 

Jip  was  there,  and  Jip  would  bark  at  me  again.  When  I  presented  my  bouquet, 
he  gnashed  his  teeth  with  jealousy.  Well  he  might.  If  he  had  the  least  idea  how  I 
adored  his  mistress,  well  he  might ! 

'  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Copperfield  !     What  dear  flowers  !  '   said  Dora. 

I  had  had  an  intention  of  saying  (and  had  been  studying  the  best  form  of  words 


312  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

for  three  miles)  that  I  thought  them  beautiful  before  I  saw  them  so  near  her.  But 
I  couldn't  manage  it.  She  was  too  bewildering.  To  see  her  lay  the  flowers  against 
her  little  dimpled  chin,  was  to  lose  all  presence  of  mind  and  power  of  language  in  a 
feeble  ecstasy.  I  wonder  I  didn't  say,  '  Kill  me,  if  you  have  a  heart,  Miss  Mills.  Let 
me  die  here  !  ' 

Then  Dora  held  my  flowers  to  Jip  to  smell.  Then  Jip  growled,  and  wouldn't 
smell  them.  Then  Dora  laughed,  and  held  them  a  little  closer  to  Jip,  to  make  him. 
Then  Jip  laid  hold  of  a  bit  of  geranium  with  his  teeth,  and  worried  imaginary  cats 
in  it.  Then  Dora  beat  him,  and  pouted,  and  said,  '  My  poor  beautiful  flowers  !  '  as 
compassionately,  I  thought,  as  if  Jip  had  laid  hold  of  me.     I  wished  he  had  ! 

'  You  '11  be  so  glad  to  hear,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Dora,  '  that  that  cross  Miss 
Murdstone  is  not  here.  She  has  gone  to  her  brother's  marriage,  and  will  be  away  at 
least  three  weeks.     Isn't  that  delightful  ?  ' 

I  said  I  was  sure  it  must  be  delightful  to  her,  and  all  that  was  delightful  to  her 
was  delightful  to  me.  Miss  Mills,  with  an  air  of  superior  wisdom  and  benevolence, 
smiled  upon  us. 

'  She  is  the  most  disagreeable  thing  I  ever  saw,'  said  Dora.  '  You  can't  believe 
how  ill-tempered  and  shocking  she  is,  Julia.' 

'  Yes,  I  can,  my  dear  !  '    said  Julia. 

'  You  can,  perhaps,  love,'  returned  Dora,  with  her  hand  on  Julia's.  '  Forgive 
my  not  excepting  you,  my  dear,  at  first.' 

I  learnt,  from  this,  that  Miss  Mills  had  had  her  trials  in  the  course  of  a  chequered 
existence  ;  and  that  to  these,  perhaps,  I  might  refer  that  wise  benignity  of  manner 
which  I  had  already  noticed.  I  found,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  that  this  was  the 
case  :  Miss  Mills  having  been  unhappy  in  a  misplaced  affection,  and  being  understood 
to  have  retired  from  the  world  on  her  awful  stock  of  experience,  but  still  to  take  a 
calm  interest  in  the  unblighted  hopes  and  loves  of  youth. 

But  now  Mr.  Spenlow  came  out  of  the  house,  and  Dora  went  to  him,  saying, 
'  Look,  papa,  what  beautiful  flowers  !  '  And  Miss  Mills  smiled  thoughtfully,  as  who 
should  say,  '  Ye  May-flies  enjoy  your  brief  existence  in  the  bright  morning  of  life  !  ' 
And  we  all  walked  from  the  lawn  towards  the  carriage,  which  was  getting  ready. 

I  shall  never  have  such  a  ride  again.  I  have  never  had  such  another.  There 
were  only  those  three,  their  hamper,  my  hamper,  and  the  guitar-case,  in  the  phaeton  ; 
and,  of  course,  the  phaeton  was  open  ;  and  I  rode  behind  it,  and  Dora  sat  with  her 
back  to  the  horses,  looking  towards  me.  She  kept  the  bouquet  close  to  her  on  the 
cushion,  and  wouldn't  allow  Jip  to  sit  on  that  side  of  her  at  all,  for  fear  he  should 
crush  it.  She  often  carried  it  in  her  hand,  often  refreshed  herself  with  its  fragrance. 
Our  eyes  at  those  times  often  met ;  and  my  great  astonishment  is  that  I  didn't  go  over 
the  head  of  my  gallant  grey  into  the  carriage. 

There  was  dust,  I  believe.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  dust,  I  believe.  I  have  a 
faint  impression  that  Mr.  Spenlow  remonstrated  with  me  for  riding  in  it ;  but  I  knew 
of  none.  I  was  sensible  of  a  mist  of  love  and  beauty  about  Dora,  but  of  nothing  else. 
He  stood  up  sometimes,  and  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  the  prospect.  I  said  it  was 
delightful,  and  I  dare  say  it  was  ;  but  it  was  all  Dora  to  me.  The  sun  shone  Dora, 
and  the  birds  sang  Dora.  The  south  wind  blew  Dora,  and  the  wildflowers  in  the 
hedges  were  all  Doras,  to  a  bud.  My  comfort  is,  Miss  Mills  understood  me.  Miss 
Mills  alone  could  enter  into  my  feelings  thoroughly. 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  were  going,  and  to  this  hour  I  know  as  little  where 


P.LTSSFUL  818 

we  went.  Perhaps  it  was  near  Guildford.  Perhaps  some  Arahian-niKht  magician 
opened  up  the  place  for  the  day,  and  shut  it  up  for  ever  when  we  came  away.  It 
was  a  green  sjiot,  on  a  liill,  carpeted  with  soft  turf.  There  were  shady  trees,  and 
heather,  and,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  a  rich  landscape. 

It  was  a  tryinji  tliiti;^  to  find  people  here,  waiting  for  us  ;  and  my  jealousy,  even 
of  the  ladies,  knew  no  bounds.  Jiut  all  of  my  own  sex — especially  one  impostor, 
three  or  four  years  my  elder,  with  a  red  whisker,  on  which  he  established  an  amount 
of  presumption  not  to  be  endured — were  my  mortal  foes. 

We  all  unpacked  our  baskets,  and  employed  ourselves  in  getting  (hnncr  ready. 
Red  Whisker  pretended  he  could  make  a  salad  (which  I  don't  believe),  and  obtruded 
himself  on  public  notice.  Some  of  the  young  ladies  washed  the  lettuces  for  him,  and 
sliced  them  imder  his  directions.  Dora  was  among  these.  I  felt  that  fate  had  pitted 
me  against  this  man,  and  one  of  us  must  fall. 

Red  \Vhisker  made  his  salad  (I  wondered  how  they  could  eat  it.  Nothing  should 
have  induced  me  to  touch  it  !)  and  voted  himself  into  the  charge  of  the  wine-cellar, 
which  he  constructed,  being  an  ingenious  beast,  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  a  tree.  By 
and  bj%  I  saw  him,  with  the  majority  of  a  lobster  on  his  plate,  eating  his  dinner  at 
at  the  feet  of  Dora  ! 

I  have  but  an  indistinct  idea  of  what  happened  for  some  time  after  this  baleful 
object  presented  itself  to  my  view.  I  was  very  merry,  I  know  ;  but  it  was  hollow 
merriment.  I  attached  mj'self  to  a  young  creature  in  pink,  with  little  eyes,  and 
fiirted  with  her  desperately.  She  received  my  attentions  with  favour  ;  but  whether 
on  my  account  solely,  or  because  she  had  any  designs  on  Red  Whisker,  I  can't  say. 
Dora's  health  was  drunk.  When  I  drank  it,  I  affected  to  interrupt  my  conversation 
for  that  purpose,  and  to  resume  it  immediately  afterwards.  I  caught  Dora's  eye 
as  I  bowed  to  her,  and  I  thought  it  looked  appealing.  But  it  looked  at  me  over  the 
head  of  Red  Whisker,  and  I  was  adamant. 

The  young  creature  in  pink  had  a  mother  in  green  ;  and  I  rather  think  the  latter 
separated  us  from  motives  of  policy.  Howbeit,  there  was  a  general  breaking  up  of 
the  party,  while  the  remnants  of  the  dinner  were  being  put  away  ;  and  I  strolled  off 
by  myself  among  the  trees,  in  a  raging  and  remorseful  state.  I  was  debating  whether 
I  should  pretend  that  I  was  not  well,  and  fly — I  don't  know  where — upon  my  gallant 
grey,  when  Dora  and  Miss  Mills  met  me. 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Miss  Mills,  '  you  are  dull.' 

I  begged  her  pardon.     Not  at  all. 

'  And  Dora,'  said  Miss  Mills,  '  yoit,  are  dull.' 

Oh  dear  no  !     Not  in  the  least. 

'  Mr.  Copperfield  and  Dora,'  said  Miss  Mills,  with  an  almost  venerable  air. 
'  Enough  of  this.  Do  not  allow  a  trivial  misunderstanding  to  wither  the  blossoms  of 
spring,  which,  once  put  forth  and  blighted,  can  not  be  renewed.  I  speak.'  said  Miss 
Mills,  '  from  experience  of  the  past — the  remote  irrevocable  past.  The  gushing 
fountains  which  sparkle  in  the  sun,  must  not  be  stopped  in  mere  caprice  ;  the  oasis 
in  the  desert  of  Sahara,  must  not  be  plucked  up  idly.' 

I  hardly  kiicw  what  I  did,  I  was  burning  all  over  to  that  extraordinary  extent ; 
but  I  took  Dora's  little  hand  and  kissed  it — and  she  let  me  !  I  kissed  Miss  Mills's 
hand  ;   and  we  all  seemed,  to  my  thinking,  to  go  straight  up  to  the  seventh  heaven. 

We  did  not  come  down  again.  We  stayed  up  there  all  the  evening.  At  first  we 
strayed  to  and  fro  among  the  trees  :    I  with  Dora's  shy  arm  drawn  through  mine  : 


314  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

and  Heaven  knows,  folly  as  it  all  was,  it  would  have  been  a  happy  fate  to  have  been 
struck  immortal  with  those  foolish  feelings,  and  have  strayed  among  the  trees  for  ever  ! 

But,  much  too  soon,  we  heard  the  others  laughing  and  talking,  and  calling  '  where  's 
Dora  ?  '  So  we  went  back,  and  they  wanted  Dora  to  sing.  Red  Whisker  would  have 
got  the  guitar-case  out  of  the  carriage,  but  Dora  told  him  nobody  knew  where  it  was 
but  I.  So  Red  Whisker  was  done  for  in  a  moment ;  and  I  got  it,  and  I  unlocked  it, 
and  /  took  the  guitar  out,  and  /  sat  by  her,  and  /  held  her  handkerchief  and  gloves, 
and  /  drank  in  every  note  of  her  dear  voice,  and  she  sang  to  me  who  loved  her,  and  all 
the  others  might  applaud  as  much  as  they  liked,  but  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  ! 

I  was  intoxicated  with  joy.  I  was  afraid  it  was  too  happy  to  be  real,  and  that  I 
should  wake  in  Buckingham  Street  presently,  and  hear  Mrs.  Crupp  clinking  the  tea- 
cups in  getting  breakfast  ready.  But  Dora  sang,  and  others  sang,  and  Miss  Mills  sang 
— about  the  slumbering  echoes  in  the  caverns  of  Memory  ;  as  if  she  were  a  hundred 
years  old — and  the  evening  came  on  ;  and  we  had  tea,  with  the  kettle  boiling  gipsy- 
fashion  ;    and  I  was  still  as  happy  as  ever. 

I  was  happier  than  ever  when  the  party  broke  up,  and  the  other  people,  defeated 
Red  Whisker  and  all,  went  their  several  ways,  and  we  went  ours  through  the  still 
evening  and  the  dying  light,  with  sweet  scents  rising  up  around  us.  Mr.  Spenlow 
being  a  little  drowsy  after  the  champagne — honour  to  the  soil  that  grew  the  grape, 
to  the  grape  that  made  the  wine,  to  the  sun  that  ripened  it,  and  to  the  merchant  who 
adulterated  it  ! — and  being  fast  asleep  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  I  rode  by  the  side 
and  talked  to  Dora.  She  admired  my  horse  and  patted  him — oh,  what  a  dear  little 
hand  it  looked  upon  a  horse  ! — and  her  shawl  would  not  keep  right,  and  now  and  then 
I  drew  it  round  her  with  my  arm  ;  and  I  even  fancied  that  Jip  began  to  see  how  it  was, 
and  to  understand  that  he  must  make  up  his  mind  to  be  friends  with  me. 

That  sagacious  Miss  Mills,  too  ;  that  amiable,  though  quite  used-up,  recluse  ; 
that  little  patriarch  of  something  less  than  twenty,  who  had  done  with  the  world,  and 
mustn't  on  any  account  have  the  slumbering  echoes  in  the  caverns  of  Memory 
awakened  ;  what  a  kind  thing  she  did  ! 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Miss  Mills,  '  come  to  this  side  of  the  carriage  a  moment — 
if  you  can  spare  a  moment.     I  want  to  speak  to  you.' 

Behold  me,  on  my  gallant  grey,  bending  at  the  side  of  Miss  Mills,  with  my  hand 
upon  the  carriage-door  ! 

'  Dora  is  coming  to  stay  with  me.  She  is  coming  home  with  me  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  If  you  would  like  to  call,  I  am  sure  papa  would  be  happy  to  see 
you.' 

What  could  I  do  but  invoke  a  silent  blessing  on  Miss  Mills's  head,  and  store  Miss 
Mills's  address  in  the  securest  corner  of  my  memory  !  \Miat  could  I  do  but  tell  Miss 
Mills,  with  grateful  looks  and  fervent  words,  how  much  I  appreciated  her  good  offices, 
and  what  an  inestimable  value  I  set  upon  her  friendship  ! 

Then  Miss  Mills  benignantly  dismissed  me,  saying,  '  Go  back  to  Dora  !  '  and  I 
went ;  and  Dora  leaned  out  of  the  carriage  to  talk  to  me,  and  we  talked  all  the  rest 
of  the  way  ;  and  I  rode  my  gallant  grey  so  close  to  the  wheel  that  I  grazed  his  near 
fore-leg  against  it,  and  '  took  the  bark  off,'  as  his  owner  told  me,  '  to  the  tune  of 
three  pun'  sivin'— which  I  paid,  and  thought  extremely  cheap  for  so  much  joy. 
What  time  Miss  Mills  sat  looking  at  the  moon,  murmuring  verses  and  recalling,  I 
suppose,  the  ancient  days  when  she  and  earth  had  anything  in  common. 

Norwood  was  many  miles  too  near,  and  we  reached  it  many  hours  too  soon  ; 


nLTSSFlJL  815 

but  Mr.  Spcniow  came  to  himself  a  little  short  of  it,  and  said,  '  You  must  come  in, 
Copperfield,  and  rest !  '  and  I  coriscntinj^,  we  had  sandwiches  and  wine-and-water. 
In  the  light  room,  Dora  blushing  looked  so  lovely,  that  I  could  not  tear  myself  away, 
but  sat  there  staring,  in  a  dream,  until  the  snoring  of  Mr.  Spcniow  inspired  me  with 
suflicient  consciousness  to  take  my  leave.  So  we  jiartcd  ;  I  riding  all  the  way  to 
London  with  the  farewell  touch  of  Dora's  hand  still  light  oji  mine,  recalling  every 
incident  and  word  ten  thousand  times  ;  lying  down  in  my  own  bed  at  last,  as 
enraptured  a  young  noodle  as  ever  was  carried  out  of  his  five  wits  by  love. 

When  I  awoke  next  morning,  I  was  resolute  to  declare  my  passion  to  Dora,  and 
know  my  fate.  Happiness  or  misery  was  now  the  question.  There  was  no  other 
question  that  I  knew  of  in  the  world,  and  only  Dora  could  give  the  answer  to  it.  I 
passed  three  days  in  a  luxury  of  wretchedness,  torturing  myself  by  putting  every 
conceivable  variety  of  discouraging  construction  on  all  that  ever  had  taken  place 
between  Dora  and  me.  At  last,  arrayed  for  the  purpose  at  a  vast  expense,  I  went  to 
Miss  Mills's,  fraught  with  a  declaration. 

How  many  times  I  went  up  and  down  the  street,  and  round  the  square — painfully 
aware  of  being  a  much  better  answer  to  the  old  riddle  than  the  original  one — before  I 
could  persuade  myself  to  go  up  the  steps  and  knock,  is  no  matter  now.  Even  when, 
at  last,  I  had  knocked,  and  was  waiting  at  the  door,  I  had  some  flurried  thought  of 
asking  if  that  were  Mr.  Blackboy's  (in  imitation  of  poor  Barkis),  begging  pardon,  and 
retreating.     But  I  kept  my  ground. 

Mr.  Mills  was  not  at  home.  I  did  not  expect  he  would  be.  Nobodj'  wanted 
him.     Miss  Mills  was  at  home.     Miss  Mills  would  do. 

I  was  shown  into  a  room  upstairs,  where  Miss  Mills  and  Dora  were.  Jip  was  there. 
Miss  Mills  was  copying  music  (I  recollect,  it  was  a  new  song,  called  Affection's  Dirge), 
and  Dora  was  painting  flowers.  What  were  my  feelings,  when  I  recognised  my  own 
flowers  ;  the  identical  Covent  Garden  Market  purchase  !  I  cannot  say  that  they 
were  very  like,  or  that  they  particularly  resembled  any  flowers  that  have  ever  come 
under  my  observation  ;  but  I  knew  from  the  paper  round  them,  which  was  accurately 
copied,  what  the  composition  was. 

Miss  jNIills  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  very  sorry  her  papa  was  not  at  home  : 
though  I  thought  we  all  bore  that  with  fortitude.  Miss  Mills  was  conversational  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  then,  laying  down  her  pen  upon  Affection's  Dirge,  got  up,  and 
left  the  room. 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

'  I  hope  your  poor  horse  was  not  tired,  when  he  got  home  at  night,'  said  Dora, 
lifting  up  her  beautiful  eyes.     '  It  was  a  long  way  for  him.' 

I  began  to  think  I  would  do  it  to-day. 

'  It  was  a  long  way  for  him,'  said  I,  '  for  he  had  nothing  to  uphold  him  on  the 
journey.' 

'  Wasn't  he  fed,  poor  thing  ?  '  asked  Dora. 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

'  Ye — yes,'  I  said,  '  he  was  well  taken  care  of.  I  mean  he  had  not  the  unutterable 
happiness  that  I  had  in  being  so  near  you.' 

Dora  bent  her  head  over  her  drawing,  and  said,  after  a  little  while — I  had  sat, 
in  the  interval,  in  a  burning  fever,  and  with  my  legs  in  a  very  rigid  state — 

'  You  didn't  seem  to  be  sensible  of  that  happiness  yourself,  at  one  time  of  the  day.' 

I  saw  now  that  I  was  in  for  it,  and  it  must  be  done  on  the  spot. 


316  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  didn't  care  for  that  happiness  in  the  least,'  said  Dora,  slightly  raising  her 
eyebrows,  and  shaking  her  head,  '  when  you  were  sitting  by  Miss  Kitt.' 

Kitt,  I  should  observe,  was  the  name  of  the  creature  in  pink,  with  the  little  eyes. 

'  Though  certainly  I  don't  know  why  you  should,'  said  Dora,  '  or  why  you  should 
call  it  a  happiness  at  all.  But  of  course  you  don't  mean  what  you  say.  And  I  am 
sure  no  one  doubts  your  being  at  liberty  to  do  whatever  you  like.  Jip,  you  naughty 
boy,  come  here  ! ' 

I  don't  know  how  I  did  it.  I  did  it  in  a  moment.  I  intercepted  Jip.  I  had  Dora 
in  my  arms.  I  was  full  of  eloquence.  I  never  stopped  for  a  word.  I  told  her  how  I 
loved  her.  I  told  her  I  should  die  without  her.  I  told  her  that  I  idolised  and 
worshipped  her.     Jip  barked  madly  all  the  time. 

When  Dora  hung  her  head  and  cried,  and  trembled,  my  eloquence  increased  so 
much  the  more.  If  she  would  like  me  to  die  for  her,  she  had  but  to  say  the  word,  and 
I  was  ready.  Life  without  Dora's  love  was  not  a  thing  to  have  on  any  terms.  I 
couldn't  bear  it,  and  I  wouldn't.  I  had  loved  her  every  minute,  day  and  night,  since 
I  first  saw  her.  I  loved  her  at  that  minute  to  distraction.  I  should  always  love 
her,  every  minute,  to  distraction.  Lovers  had  loved  before,  and  lovers  would  love 
again  ;  but  no  lover  had  ever  loved,  might,  could,  would,  or  should  ever  love,  as  I 
loved  Dora.  The  more  I  raved,  the  more  Jip  barked.  Each  of  us,  in  his  own  way, 
got  more  mad  every  moment. 

Well,  well  !  Dora  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  sofa  by  and  by,  quiet  enough,  and 
Jip  was  lying  in  her  lap,  ^vinking  peacefully  at  me.  It  was  off  my  mind.  I  was  in  a 
state  of  perfect  rapture.     Dora  and  I  were  engaged. 

I  suppose  we  had  some  notion  that  this  was  to  end  in  marriage.  We  must  have 
had  some,  because  Dora  stipulated  that  we  were  never  to  be  married  without  her 
papa's  consent.  But,  in  our  youthful  ecstasy,  I  don't  think  that  we  really  looked  before 
us  or  behind  us  ;  or  had  any  aspiration  beyond  the  ignorant  present.  We  were  to  keep 
our  secret  from  Mr.  Spenlow  ;  but  I  am  sure  the  idea  never  entered  my  head,  then,  that 
there  was  anything  dishonourable  in  that. 

Miss  Mills  was  more  than  usually  pensive  when  Dora,  going  to  find  her,  brought  her 
back  ; — -I  apprehend,  because  there  was  a  tendency  in  what  had  passed  to  awaken 
the  slumbering  echoes  in  the  caverns  of  Memory.  But  she  gave  us  her  blessing,  and 
the  assurance  of  her  lasting  friendship,  and  spoke  to  us,  generally,  as  became  a  Voice 
from  the  Cloister. 

What  an  idle  time  it  was  !     What  an  unsubstantial,  happy,  foolish  time  it  was  ! 

When  I  measured  Dora's  finger  for  a  ring  that  w^as  to  be  made  of  forget-me-nots, 
and  when  the  jeweller,  to  whom  I  took  the  measure,  found  me  out,  and  laughed  over 
his  order  book,  and  charged  me  anything  he  liked  for  the  pretty  little  toy,  with  its 
blue  stones^so  associated  in  my  remembrance  with  Dora's  hand,  that  yesterday, 
when  I  saw  such  another,  by  chance,  on  the  finger  of  my  own  daughter,  there  was 
a  momentary  stirring  in  my  heart,  like  pain  ! 

When  I  walked  about,  exalted  with  my  secret,  and  full  of  my  own  interest,  and 
felt  the  dignity  of  loving  Dora,  and  of  being  beloved,  so  much,  that  if  I  had  walked 
the  air,  I  could  not  have  been  more  above  the  people  not  so  situated,  who  were 
creeping  on  the  earth  ! 

When  we  had  those  meetings  in  the  garden  of  the  square,  and  sat  within  the  dingy 
summer-house,  so  happy,  that  I  love  the  London  sparrows  to  this  hour,  for  nothing 
else,  and  see  the  plumage  of  the  tropics  in  their  smoky  feathers  I 


MY  AUNT  ASTONISHES  ME  817 

When  we  had  our  first  great  quarrel  (within  a  week  of  our  betrothal),  and  when 
Dora  sent  me  back  the  riiifj,  enclosed  in  a  despairing  cocked-hat  note,  wherein  she 
used  the  terrible  ex{)ression  that '  our  love  had  begun  in  folly,  and  ended  in  madness  !  ' 
which  dreadful  words  occasioned  me  to  tear  my  hair,  and  cry  that  all  was  over  ! 

When,  under  cover  of  the  night,  I  flew  to  Miss  Mills,  whom  I  saw  by  stealth  in  a 
back-kitchen  where  there  was  a  mangle,  and  implored  Miss  Mills  to  interpose  between 
us  and  avert  insanity.  When  Miss  Mills  undertook  the  office  and  returned  with 
Dora,  exhorting  us,  from  the  pulpit  of  her  own  Ijitter  youth,  to  mutual  concession, 
and  the  avoidance  of  the  desert  of  Sahara  ! 

When  we  cried,  and  made  it  u(),  and  were  so  blest  again,  that  the  back-kitchen, 
mangle  and  all,  changed  to  Love's  own  temple,  where  we  arranged  a  jilan  of  corre- 
spondence through  Miss  Mills,  alwaj's  to  comprehend  at  least  one  letter  on  each  side 
every  day  I 

What  an  idle  time  !  What  an  unsubstantial,  happy,  foolish  time  !  Of  all  the 
times  of  mine  that  Time  has  in  his  grip,  there  is  none  that  in  one  retrospect  I  can 
smile  at  half  so  nmch,  and  think  of  half  so  tenderly. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

MY    AUNT    ASTONISHES    ME 

I  WROTE  to  Agnes  as  soon  as  Dora  and  I  were  engaged.  I  wrote  her  a  long 
letter,  in  which  I  tried  to  make  her  comprehend  how  blest  I  was,  and  what  a 
darling  Dora  was.  I  entreated  Agnes  not  to  regard  this  as  a  thoughtless  passion 
which  could  ever  yield  to  any  other,  or  had  the  least  resemblance  to  the  boyish 
fancies  that  we  used  to  joke  about.  I  assured  her  that  its  profundity  was  quite 
unfathomable,  and  expressed  my  belief  that  nothing  like  it  had  ever  been  known. 

Somehow,  as  I  wrote  to  Agnes  on  a  fine  evening  by  my  open  window,  and  the 
remembrance  of  her  clear  calm  eyes  and  gentle  face  came  stealing  over  me,  it  shed 
such  a  peaceful  influence  upon  the  hurry  and  agitation  in  which  I  had  been  living 
lately,  and  of  which  my  very  happiness  partook  in  some  degree,  that  it  soothed  me 
into  tears.  I  remember  that  I  sat  resting  my  head  upon  my  hand,  when  the  letter 
was  half  done,  cherishing  a  general  fancy  as  if  Agnes  were  one  of  the  elements  of  my 
natural  home.  As  if,  in  the  retirement  of  the  house  made  almost  sacred  to  me  by  her 
presence,  Dora  and  I  must  be  happier  than  anywhere.  As  if,  in  love,  joy,  sorrow, 
hope,  or  disappointment ;  in  all  emotions  ;  my  heart  turned  naturally  there,  and 
found  its  refuge  and  best  friend. 

Of  Steerforth,  I  said  nothing.  I  only  told  her  there  had  been  sad  grief  at 
Yarmouth,  on  account  of  Emily's  flight  ;  and  that  on  me  it  made  a  double  wound, 
by  reason  of  the  circumstances  attending  it.  I  knew  how  quick  she  always  was  to 
divine  the  truth,  and  that  she  would  never  be  the  first  to  breathe  his  name. 

To  this  letter,  I  received  an  answer  by  return  of  post.  As  I  read  it,  I  seemed  to 
hear  Agnes  speaking  to  me.  It  was  like  her  cordial  voice  in  my  ears.  Wiat  can  I 
say  more  ? 

While  I  had  been  away  from  home  lately,  Traddles  had  called  twice  or  thrice. 
Finding  Peggotty  within,  and  being  informed  by  Peggotty  (who  always  volunteered 
that  information  to  whomsoever  would  receive  it),  that  she  was  my  old  nurse,  he 


318  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

had  established  a  good-humoured  acquaintance  with  her,  and  had  stayed  to  have  a 
httle  chat  with  her  about  me.  So  Peggotty  said  ;  but  I  am  afraid  the  chat  was  all 
on  her  own  side,  and  of  immoderate  length,  as  she  was  very  difficult  indeed  to  stop, 
God  bless  her  !   when  she  had  me  for  her  theme. 

This  reminds  me,  not  only  that  I  expected  Traddles  on  a  certain  afternoon  of 
his  own  appointing,  which  was  now  come,  but  that  Mrs.  Crupp  had  resigned  every- 
thing appertaining  to  her  office  (the  salary  excepted)  until  Peggotty  should  cease  to 
present  herself.  Mrs.  Crupp,  after  holding  divers  conversations  respecting  Peggotty, 
in  a  very  high-pitched  voice,  on  the  staircase — with  some  invisible  Familiar  it  would 
appear,  for  corporeally  speaking  she  was  quite  alone  at  those  times — addressed  a 
letter  to  me,  developing  her  views.  Beginning  it  with  that  statement  of  universal 
application,  which  fitted  every  occurrence  of  her  life,  namely,  that  she  was  a  mother 
herself,  she  went  on  to  inform  me  that  she  had  once  seen  very  different  days,  but  that 
at  all  periods  of  her  existence  she  had  had  a  constitutional  objection  to  spies,  intruders, 
and  informers.  She  named  no  names,  she  said  ;  let  them  the  cap  fitted,  wear  it ; 
but  spies,  intruders,  and  informers,  especially  in  widders'  weeds  (this  clause  was 
underlined),  she  had  ever  accustomed  herself  to  look  down  upon.  If  a  gentleman 
was  the  victim  of  spies,  intruders,  and  informers  (but  still  naming  no  names),  that 
was  his  own  pleasure.  He  had  a  right  to  please  himself  ;  so  let  him  do.  All  that 
she,  Mrs.  Crupp,  stipulated  for,  was,  that  she  should  not  be  '  brought  in  contract ' 
with  such  persons.  Therefore  she  begged  to  be  excused  from  any  further  attendance 
on  the  top  set,  until  things  were  as  they  formerly  was,  and  as  they  could  be  wished 
to  be  ;  and  further  mentioned  that  her  little  book  would  be  found  upon  the  breakfast- 
table  every  Saturday  morning,  when  she  requested  an  immediate  settlement  of  the 
same,  with  the  benevolent  view  of  saving  trouble,  '  and  an  ill-conwenience  '  to  all 
parties. 

After  this,  Mrs.  Crupp  confined  herself  to  making  pitfalls  on  the  stairs,  principally 
with  pitchers,  and  endeavouring  to  delude  Peggotty  into  breaking  her  legs.  I  found 
it  rather  harassing  to  live  in  this  state  of  siege,  but  was  too  much  afraid  of  Mrs.  Crupp 
to  see  any  way  out  of  it. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  cried  Traddles,  punctually  appearing  at  my  door,  in  spite 
of  all  these  obstacles,  '  how  do  you  do  ?  ' 

'  My  dear  Traddles,'  said  I,  '  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  at  last,  and  very  sorry  I 
have  not  been  at  home  before.     But  I  have  been  so  much  engaged ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  know,'  said  Traddles,  '  of  course.     Yours  lives  in  London,  I  think.' 

'  What  did  you  say  ?  ' 

'  She — excuse  me — Miss  D.,  you  know,'  said  Traddles,  colouring  in  his  great 
delicacy,  '  lives  in  London,  I  believe  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes.     Near  London.' 

'  Mine,  perhaps  you  recollect,'  said  Traddles,  with  a  serious  look,  '  lives  down  in 
Devonshire — one  of  ten.  Consequently,  I  am  not  so  much  engaged  as  you — in  that 
sense.' 

'  I  wonder  you  can  bear,'  I  returned,  '  to  see  her  so  seldom.' 

'  Hah  ! '  said  Traddles,  thoughtfully.  '  It  does  seem  a  wonder.  I  suppose  it  is, 
Copperfield,  because  there  's  no  help  for  it  ?  ' 

'  I  suppose  so,'  I  replied  with  a  smile,  and  not  without  a  blush.  '  And  because 
you  have  so  much  constancy  and  patience,  Traddles.' 

'  Dear  me  !  '    said  Traddles,  considering  about  it,  '  do  I  strike  you  in  that  way, 


MY  AUNT  ASTONISHES  ME  319 

Copperfield  ?  Really  I  didn't  know  that  I  had.  Hut  she  is  such  an  extraordinarily 
de.'ir  girl  herself,  that  it  's  possible  she  may  have  inijjarted  something  of  those  virtues 
to  me.  Now  you  mention  it,  Copperfield,  I  shouldn't  wonder  at  all.  I  assure  you 
she  is  always  forgetting  herself,  and  taking  care  of  tlie  other  nine.' 

'  Is  she  the  eldest  V  '    I  in(|uired. 

'  Oh  dear,  no/  said  Traddles.     '  The  eldest  is  a  Beauty.' 

He  saw,  I  suppose,  that  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  simplicity  of  this  reply  ; 
and  added,  with  a  smile  upon  his  own  ingenuous  face — 

'  Not,  of  course,  hut  that  my  Sophy — pretty  name,  Copperfield,  I  always  think  ?  ' 

'  Very  pretty  !  '    said  I. 

'  Not,  of  course,  but  that  Sophy  is  beautiful  too  in  my  eyes,  and  would  be  one  of 
the  dearest  girls  that  ever  was,  in  anybody's  eyes  (I  should  think),     liut  when  I  say 

the  eldest  is  a  Beauty,   I  mean   she   really   is   a '   he  seemed  to   be  describing 

clouds  about  himself,  with  both  hands  :  '  Splendid,  you  know,'  said  Traddles, 
energetically. 

'  Indeed  !  '    said  I. 

'  Oh,  I  assure  you,'  said  Traddles,  '  something  very  uncommon,  indeed  !  Then, 
you  know,  being  formed  for  society  and  admiration,  and  not  being  able  to  enjoy  much 
of  it  in  consequence  of  their  limited  means,  she  naturally  gets  a  little  irritable  and 
exacting,  sometimes.     Sophy  puts  her  in  good-humour  !  ' 

'  Is  Sophy  the  youngest  ?  '    I  hazarded. 

'  Oh  dear,  no  !  '  said  Traddles,  stroking  his  chin.  '  The  two  youngest  are  only 
nine  and  ten.     Sophy  educates  'em.' 

'  The  second  daughter,  perhaps  ?  '    I  hazarded. 

'  No,'  said  Traddles.  '  Sarah  's  the  second.  Sarah  has  something  the  matter 
with  her  spine,  poor  girl.  The  malady  will  wear  out  by  and  by,  the  doctors  say,  but 
in  the  meantime  she  has  to  lie  down  for  a  twelvemonth.  Sophy  nurses  her.  Sophy  's 
the  fourth.' 

'  Is  the  mother  living  ?  '    I  inquired. 

'  Oh  yes,'  said  Traddles,  '  she  is  alive.  She  is  a  very  superior  woman  indeed,  but 
the  damp  country  is  not  adapted  to  her  constitution,  and— in  fact,  she  has  lost  the 
use  of  her  limbs.' 

'  Dear  me  !  '    said  I. 

'  Very  sad,  is  it  not  ?  '  returned  Traddles.  '  But  in  a  merely  domestic  view  it 
is  not  so  bad  as  it  might  be,  because  Sophy  takes  her  place.  She  is  quite  as  much 
a  mother  to  her  mother,  as  she  is  to  the  other  nine.' 

I  felt  the  greatest  admiration  for  the  virtues  of  this  young  lady  ;  and,  honestly 
with  the  view  of  doing  my  best  to  prevent  the  good-nature  of  Traddles  from  being 
imposed  upon,  to  the  detriment  of  their  joint  prospects  in  life,  inquired  how  Mr. 
Micawber  was  ? 

'  He  is  quite  well,  Copperfield,  thank  you,'  said  Traddles,  '  I  am  not  living  with 
him  at  present.' 

'No?' 

'  No.  You  see  the  truth  is,'  said  Traddles,  in  a  whisper,  '  he  has  changed  his 
name  to  Mortimer,  in  consequence  of  his  temporary  embarrassments  ;  and  he  don't 
come  oiit  till  after  dark — and  then  in  spectacles.  There  was  an  execution  put  into 
our  house,  for  rent.  Mrs.  Micawber  was  in  such  a  dreadful  state  that  I  really  couldn't 
resist  giving  my  name  to  that  second  bill  we  spoke  of  here.     You  may  imagine  how 


320  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

delightful  it  was  to  my  feelings,  Copperteld,  to  see  the  matter  settled  with  it,  and 
Mrs.  Micawber  recover  her  spirits.' 

'  Hum  !  '   said  I. 

'  Not  that  her  happiness  was  of  long  duration,'  pursued  Traddles,  '  for,  unfortun- 
ately, within  a  week  another  execution  came  in.  It  broke  up  the  establishment.  I 
have  been  living  in  a  furnished  apartment  since  then,  and  the  Mortimers  have  been 
very  private  indeed.  I  hope  you  won't  think  it  selfish,  Copperfield,  if  I  mention  that 
the  broker  carried  off  my  httle  round  table  with  the  marble  top,  and  Sophy's  flower- 
pot and  stand  ?  ' 

'  What  a  hard  thing  !  '   I  exclaimed  indignantly. 

'  It  was  a it  was  a  pull,'  said  Traddles,  with  his  usual  wince  at  that  expression. 

'  I  don't  mention  it  reproachfully,  however,  but  with  a  motive.  The  fact  is.  Copper- 
field,  I  was  unable  to  repurchase  them  at  the  time  of  their  seizure  ;  in  the  first  place, 
because  the  broker,  having  an  idea  that  I  wanted  them,  ran  the  price  up  to  an 
extravagant  extent ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  because,  I — hadn't  any  money.  Now, 
I  have  kept  my  eye  since,  upon  the  broker's  shop,'  said  Traddles,  with  a  great  enjoy- 
ment of  his  mystery,  '  which  is  up  at  the  top  of  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and,  at  last, 
to-day  I  find  them  put  out  for  sale.  I  have  only  noticed  them  from  over  the  way, 
because  if  the  broker  saw  me,  bless  you,  he  'd  ask  any  price  for  them  !  '  What  has 
occurred  to  me,  having  now  the  money,  is,  that  perhaps  you  wouldn't  object  to  ask 
that  good  nurse  of  yours  to  come  with  me  to  the  shop — I  can  show  it  her  from  round 
the  corner  of  the  next  street — and  make  the  best  bargain  for  them,  as  if  they  were  for 
herself,  that  she  can  !  ' 

The  delight  with  which  Traddles  propounded  this  plan  to  me,  and  the  sense  he 
had  of  its  uncommon  artfulness,  are  among  the  freshest  things  in  my  remembrance. 

I  told  him  that  my  old  nurse  would  be  delighted  to  assist  him,  and  that  we  would 
all  three  take  the  field  together,  but  on  one  condition.  That  condition  was,  that  he 
should  make  a  solemn  resolution  to  grant  no  more  loans  of  his  name,  or  anything  else, 
to  Mr.  Micawber. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Traddles,  '  I  have  already  done  so,  because  I  begin  to 
feel  that  I  have  not  only  been  inconsiderate,  but  that  I  have  been  positively  unjust 
to  Sophy.  My  word  being  passed  to  myself,  there  is  no  longer  any  apprehension  ; 
but  I  pledge  it  to  you,  too,  with  the  greatest  readiness.  That  first  unlucky  obligation, 
I  have  paid.  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Micawber  would  have  paid  it  if  he  could,  but  he 
could  not.  One  thing  I  ought  to  mention,  which  I  like  very  much  in  Mr.  Micawber, 
Copperfield.  It  refers  to  the  second  obligation,  which  is  not  yet  due.  He  don't  tell 
me  that  it  is  provided  for,  but  he  says  it  will  be.  Now,  I  think  there  is  something 
very  fair  and  honest  about  that  !  ' 

I  was  unwilling  to  damp  my  good  friend's  confidence,  and  therefore  assented. 
After  a  little  further  conversation,  we  went  round  to  the  chandler's  shop,  to  enlist 
Peggotty  ;  Traddles  declining  to  pass  the  evening  with  me,  both  because  he  endured 
the  liveliest  apprehensions  that  his  property  would  be  bought  by  somebody  else  before 
he  could  repurchase  it,  and  because  it  was  the  evening  he  always  de\-oted  to  writing 
to  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world. 

I  never  shall  forget  him  peeping  round  the  corner  of  the  street  in  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  while  Peggotty  was  bargaining  for  the  precious  articles  ;  or  his  agitation 
when  she  came  slowly  towards  us  after  vainly  offering  a  price,  and  was  hailed  by  the 
relenting  broker,  and  went  back  again.     The  end  of  the  negotiation  was,  that  she 


MY  AUNT  ASTONISHES  ME  n2i 

bought  the  property  on  tolerably  easy  terms,  and  Traddles  was  transported  with 
pleasure. 

'  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  indeed,'  said  Traddles,  on  hearing  it  was  to 
be  sent  to  where  he  lived,  that  night.  '  If  I  might  ask  one  other  favour,  I  hope  you 
would  not  think  it  absurd,  C^opperfield  ?  ' 

I  said  beforehand,  certainly  not. 

'  Then  if  you  would  be  good  enough,'  said  Traddles  to  Peggotty,  '  to  get  the 
flower-pot  now,  I  think  I  should  like  (it  being  Sophy's,  Coppcrfield)  to  carry  it  home 
myself  !  ' 

Peggotty  was  glad  to  get  it  for  him,  and  he  overwhelmed  her  with  thanks,  and 
went  his  way  up  Tottenham  Court  Road,  carrying  the  flower-pot  affectionately  in  his 
arms,  with  one  of  the  most  delighted  expressions  of  countenance  I  ever  saw. 

We  then  turned  back  towards  my  chambers.  As  the  shops  had  charms  for 
Peggotty  which  I  never  knew  them  possess  in  the  same  degree  for  anybody  else,  I 
sauntered  easily  along,  amused  by  her  staring  in  at  the  windows,  and  waiting  for  her 
as  often  as  she  chose.     We  were  thus  a  good  while  in  getting  to  the  Adelphi. 

On  our  way  upstairs,  I  called  her  attention  to  the  sudden  disappearance  of  Mrs. 
Crupp's  pitfalls,  and  also  to  the  prints  of  recent  footsteps.  We  were  both  very  much 
surprised,  coming  higher  up,  to  find  my  outer  door  standing  open  (which  I  had  shut), 
and  to  hear  voices  inside. 

We  looked  at  one  another,  without  knowing  what  to  make  of  this,  and  went 
into  the  sitting-room.  What  was  my  amazement  to  find,  of  all  people  upon  earth, 
my  aunt  there,  and  Mr.  Dick  !  My  aunt  sitting  on  a  quantity  of  luggage,  with  her 
two  birds  before  her,  and  her  cat  on  her  knee,  like  a  female  Robinson  Crusoe,  drinking 
tea.  Mr.  Dick  leaning  thoughtfully  on  a  great  kite,  such  as  we  had  often  been  out 
together  to  fly,  with  more  luggage  piled  about  him  ! 

'  My  dear  aunt  !  '   cried  I.     '  Why,  what  an  unexpected  pleasure  !  ' 

We  cordially  embraced  ;  and  Mr.  Dick  and  I  cordially  shook  hands  ;  and  Mrs. 
Crupp,  who  was  busy  making  tea,  and  could  not  be  too  attentive,  cordially  said  she 
had  knowed  well  as  Mr.  Copperfull  would  have  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  when  he  see 
his  dear  relations. 

'  Holloa  !  '  said  my  aunt  to  Peggotty,  who  quailed  before  her  awful  presence. 
'  How  are  you  ?  ' 

'  You  remember  my  aunt,  Peggotty  ?  '    said  I. 

'  For  the  love  of  goodness,  child,'  exclaimed  my  aunt,  '  don't  call  the  woman 
by  that  South  Sea  Island  name  !  If  she  married  and  got  rid  of  it,  which  was  the 
best  thing  she  could  do,  why  don't  you  give  her  the  benefit  of  the  change  ?  What  's 
your  name  now, — P.  ?  '    said  my  aunt,  as  a  compromise  for  the  obnoxious  appellation. 

'  Barkis,  ma'am,'  said  Peggotty,  with  a  curtsey. 

'  Well  !  That 's  human,'  said  my  aunt.  '  It  sounds  less  as  if  you  wanted  a 
missionary.     How  d'  ye  do,  Barkis  ?     I  hope  you  're  well  ?  ' 

Encouraged  by  these  gracious  words,  and  by  my  aunt's  extending  her  hand, 
Barkis  came  forward,  and  took  the  hand,  and  curtsied  her  acknowledgments. 

'  We  are  older  than  we  were,  I  see,'  said  my  aunt.  '  We  have  only  met  each  other 
once  before,  you  know.  A  nice  business  we  made  of  it  then  !  Trot,  my  dear, 
another  cup.' 

I  handed  it  dutifully  to  my  aunt,  who  was  in  her  usual  inflexible  state  of  figure  ; 
and  ventured  a  remonstrance  with  her  on  the  subject  of  her  sitting  on  a  box. 

L 


822  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Let  me  draw  the  sofa  here,  or  the  easy-chair,  aunt,'  said  I.  '  Why  should  you 
be  so  uncomfortable  ?  ' 

'  Thank  you.  Trot,'  replied  my  aunt,  '  I  prefer  to  sit  upon  my  property.'  Here 
my  aunt  looked  hard  at  Mrs.  Crupp,  and  observed,  '  We  needn't  trouble  you  to  wait, 
ma'am.' 

'  Shall  I  put  a  little  more  tea  in  the  pot  afore  I  go,  ma'am  ?  '   said  Mrs.  Crupp. 

'  No,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,'  replied  my  aunt. 

'  Would  you  let  me  fetch  another  pat  of  butter,  ma'am  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Crupp.  '  Or 
would  you  be  persuaded  to  try  a  new-laid  hegg  ?  or  should  I  brile  a  rasher  ?  Ain't 
there  nothing  I  could  do  for  your  dear  aunt,  Mr.  Copperfull  ?  ' 

'  Nothing,  ma'am,'  returned  my  aunt.     '  I  shall  do  very  well,  I  thank  you.' 

Mrs.  Crupp,  who  had  been  incessantly  smiling  to  express  sweet  temper,  and 
incessantly  holding  her  head  on  one  side,  to  express  a  general  feebleness  of  constitution, 
and  incessantly  rubbing  her  hands,  to  express  a  desire  to  be  of  service  to  all  deserving 
objects,  gradually  smiled  herself,  one-sided  herself,  and  rubbed  herself,  out  of  the  room. 

'  Dick  !  '  said  my  aunt.  '  You  know  what  I  told  you  about  time-servers  and 
wealth-worshippers  ?  ' 

Mr.  Dick — with  rather  a  scared  look,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  it — returned  a  hasty 
answer  in  the  affirmative. 

'  Mrs.  Crupp  is  one  of  them,'  said  my  aunt.  '  Barkis,  I  '11  trouble  you  to  look 
after  the  tea,  and  let  me  have  another  cup,  for  I  don't  fancy  that  woman's 
pouring-out  !  ' 

I  knew  my  aunt  sufficiently  well  to  know  that  she  had  something  of  importance 
on  her  mind,  and  that  there  was  far  more  matter  in  this  arrival  than  a  stranger  might 
have  supposed.  I  noticed  how  her  eye  lighted  on  me,  when  she  thought  my  attention 
otherwise  occupied  ;  and  what  a  curious  process  of  hesitation  appeared  to  be  going 
on  within  her,  while  she  preserved  her  outward  stiffness  and  composure.  I  began  to 
reflect  whether  I  had  done  anything  to  offend  her  ;  and  my  conscience  whispered  me 
that  I  had  not  yet  told  her  about  Dora.     Could  it  by  any  means  be  that,  I  wondered  ! 

As  I  knew  she  would  only  speak  in  her  own  good  time,  I  sat  down  near  her,  and 
spoke  to  the  birds,  and  played  with  the  cat,  and  was  as  easy  as  I  could  be.  But  I 
was  very  far  from  being  really  easy  ;  and  I  should  still  have  been  so,  even  if  Mr.  Dick, 
leaning  over  the  great  kite  behind  my  aunt,  had  not  taken  every  secret  opportunity 
of  shaking  his  head  darkly  at  me,  and  pointing  at  her. 

'  Trot,'  said  my  aunt  at  last,  when  she  had  finished  her  tea,  and  carefully  smoothed 
down  her  dress,  and  wiped  her  lips — '  you  needn't  go,  Barkis  ! — Trot,  have  you  got  to 
be  firm  and  self-reliant  ?  ' 

'  I  hope  so,  aunt.' 

'  What  do  you  think  ?  '    inquired  Miss  Betsey. 

'  I  think  so,  aunt.' 

'  Then  why,  my  love,'  said  my  aunt,  looking  earnestly  at  me,  '  why  do  you  think 
I  prefer  to  sit  upon  this  property  of  mine  to-night  ?  ' 

I  shook  my  head,  unable  to  guess. 

'  Because,'  said  my  aunt,  '  it 's  all  I  have.     Because  I  'm  ruined,  my  dear  !  ' 

If  the  house,  and  every  one  of  us,  had  tumbled  out  into  the  river  together, 
I  could  hardly  have  received  a  greater  shock. 

'  Dick  knows  it,'  said  my  aunt,  laying  her  hand  calmly  on  my  shoulder.  '  I  am 
ruined,  my  dear  Trot  !     All  I  have  in  the  world  is  in  this  room,  except  the  cottage  ; 


DEPRESSION  323 

and  that  I  have  left  Janet  to  let.  Barkis,  I  want  to  get  a  bed  for  this  gentleman 
to-night.  To  save  expense,  perhaps  you  can  make  up  .something  here  for  myself. 
Anything  will  do.     It 's  only  for  to-night.     We  'II  talk  about  this,  more,  to-morrow.' 

I  was  roused  from  my  amazement,  and  concern  for  her — I  am  sure,  for  her — 
by  her  falling  on  my  neck  for  a  moment,  and  crying  that  she  only  grieved  for  me. 
In  another  moment  she  suppressed  this  emotion  ;  and  said  with  an  aspect  more 
triumphant  than  dejected — 

'  We  must  meet  reverses  boldly,  and  not  suffer  them  to  frighten  us,  my  dear. 
We  must  learn  to  act  the  play  out.     We  must  live  misfortune  down,  Trot  1  ' 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

DEPRESSION 

jA  S  soon  as  I  could  recover  my  presence  of  mind,  which  quite  deserted  me 
/^L  in   the  first  overpowering  shock    of  my  aunt's   intelligence,    I  proposed 

/ — ^  to  Mr.  Dick  to  come  round  to  the  chandler's  shop,  and  take  possession 
■^  -B^  of  the  bed  which  Mr.  Peggotty  had  lately  vacated.  The  chandler's 
shop  being  in  Hungerford  Market,  and  Hungerford  Market  being  a  very  different 
place  in  those  days,  there  was  a  low  wooden  colonnade  before  the  door  (not  very 
unlike  that  before  the  house  where  the  little  man  and  woman  used  to  live,  in  the  old 
weather-glass),  which  pleased  Mr.  Dick  mightily.  The  glory  of  lodging  over  this 
structure  would  have  compensated  him,  I  dare  say,  for  many  inconveniences  ;  but, 
as  there  were  really  few  to  bear,  beyond  the  compound  of  flavours  I  have  already 
mentioned,  and  perhaps  the  want  of  a  little  more  elbow-room,  he  was  perfectly  charmed 
with  his  accommodation.  Mrs.  Crupp  had  indignantly  assured  him  that  there  wasn't 
room  to  swing  a  cat  there  ;  but,  as  Mr.  Dick  justly  observed  to  me,  sitting  down 
on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  nursing  his  leg,  '  You  know,  Trotwood,  I  don't  want  to  swing 
a  cat.     I  never  do  swing  a  cat.     Therefore,  what  does  that  signify  to  me  ?  ' 

I  tried  to  ascertain  whether  Mr.  Dick  had  any  understanding  of  the  causes  of  this 
sudden  and  great  change  in  my  aunt's  affairs.  As  I  might  have  expected,  he  had 
none  at  all.  The  only  account  he  could  give  of  it,  was,  that  my  aunt  had  said  to  him, 
the  day  before  yesterday,  '  Now,  Dick,  are  you  really  and  truly  the  philosopher  I  take 
you  for  ?  '  That  then  he  had  said,  Yes,  he  hoped  so.  That  then  my  aunt  had  said, 
'  Dick,  I  am  ruined.'  That  then  he  had  said,  '  Oh,  indeed  !  '  That  then  my  aunt 
had  praised  him  highly,  which  he  was  very  glad  of.  And  that  then  they  had  come 
to  me,  and  had  had  bottled  porter  and  sandwiches  on  the  road. 

Mr.  Dick  was  so  very  complacent,  sitting  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  nursing  his  leg,  and 
telling  me  this,  with  his  eyes  wide  open  and  a  surprised  smile,  that  I  am  sorry  to  say 
I  was  provoked  into  explaining  to  him  that  ruin  meant  distress,  want,  and  starvation  ; 
but,  I  was  soon  bitterly  reproved  for  this  harshness,  by  seeing  his  face  turn  pale,  and 
tears  course  down  his  lengthened  checks,  while  he  fixed  upon  me  a  look  of  such  unutter- 
able woe,  that  it  might  have  softened  a  far  harder  heart  than  mine.  I  took  infinitely 
greater  pains  to  cheer  him  up  again  than  I  had  taken  to  depress  him  ;  and  I  soon 
understood  (as  I  ought  to  have  known  at  first)  that  he  had  been  so  confident,  merely 
because  of  his  faith  in  the  wisest  and  most  wonderful  of  women,  and  his  unbounded 


324  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

reliance  on  my  intellectual  resources.     The  latter,  I  believe,  he  considered  a  match 
for  any  kind  of  disaster  not  absolutely  mortal. 

'  What  can  we  do,  Trotwood  ?  '   said  Mr.  Dick.     '  There  's  the  Memorial ' 

'  To  be  sure  there  is,'  said  I.  '  But  all  we  can  do  just  now,  Mr.  Dick,  is  to  keep 
a  cheerful  countenance,  and  not  let  my  aunt  see  that  we  are  thinking  about  it.' 

He  assented  to  this  in  the  most  earnest  manner  ;  and  implored  me,  if  I  should 
see  him  wandering  an  inch  out  of  the  right  course,  to  recall  him  by  some  of  those 
superior  methods  which  were  always  at  my  command.  But  I  regret  to  state  that  the 
fright  I  had  given  him  proved  too  much  for  his  best  attempts  at  concealment.  All 
the  evening  his  eyes  wandered  to  my  aunt's  face,  with  an  expression  of  the  most 
dismal  apprehension,  as  if  he  saw  her  growing  thin  on  the  spot.  He  was  conscious  of 
this,  and  put  a  constraint  upon  his  head  ;  but  his  keeping  that  inamovable,  and 
sitting  rolling  his  eyes  like  a  piece  of  machinery,  did  not  mend  the  matter  at  all.  I 
saw  him  look  at  the  loaf  at  supper  (which  happened  to  be  a  small  one),  as  if  nothing 
else  stood  between  us  and  famine  ;  and  when  my  aunt  insisted  on  his  making  his 
customary  repast,  I  detected  him  in  the  act  of  pocketing  fragments  of  his  bread  and 
cheese  ;  I  have  no  doubt  for  the  purpose  of  reviving  us  with  those  savings,  when  we 
should  have  reached  an  advanced  stage  of  attenuation. 

My  aunt,  on  the  other  hand,  was  in  a  composed  frame  of  mind,  which  was  a  lesson 
to  all  of  us — to  me,  I  am  sure.     She  was  extremely  gracious  to  Peggotty,  except  when 
I  inadvertently  called  her  by  that  name  ;   and,  strange  as  I  knew  she  felt  in  London, 
appeared  quite  at  home.     She  was  to  have  my  bed,  and  I  was  to  lie  in  the  sitting-room, 
to  keep  guard  over  her.     She  made  a  great  point  of  being  so  near  the  river,  in  case  of 
a  conflagration  ;   and  I  suppose  really  did  find  some  satisfaction  in  that  circumstance. 
'  Trot,  my  dear,'  said  my  aunt,  when  she  saw  me  making  preparations  for  com- 
pounding her  usual  night-draught,  '  No  !  ' 
'  Nothing,  aunt  ?  ' 
'  Not  wine,  my  dear.     Ale.' 

'  But  there  is  wine  here,  aunt.     And  you  always  have  it  made  of  wine.' 
'  Keep  that,  in  case  of  sickness,'  said  my  aunt.     '  We  mustn't  use  it  carelessly, 
Trot.     Ale  for  me.     Half  a  pint.' 

I  thought  Mr.  Dick  would  have  fallen,  insensible.  My  aunt  being  resolute,  I 
went  out  and  got  the  ale  myself.  As  it  was  growing  late,  Peggotty  and  Mr.  Dick  took 
that  opportunity  of  repairing  to  the  chandler's  shop  together.  I  parted  from  him, 
poor  fellow,  at  the  comer  of  the  street,  with  his  great  kite  at  his  back,  a  very  monument 
of  human  misery. 

My  aunt  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  when  I  returned,  crimping  the 
borders  of  her  night-cap  with  her  fingers.  I  warmed  the  ale  and  made  the  toast 
on  the  usual  infallible  principles.  When  it  was  ready  for  her,  she  was  ready  for  it, 
with  her  night-cap  on,  and  the  skirt  of  her  gown  turned  back  on  her  knees. 

'  My  dear,'  said  my  aunt,  after  taking  a  spoonful  of  it  ;  '  it 's  a  great  deal  better 
than  wine.     Not  half  so  bilious.' 

I  suppose  I  looked  doubtful,  for  she  added — 

'  Tut,  tut,  child.     If  nothing  worse  than  Ale  happens  to  us,  we  are  well  off.' 

'  I  should  think  so  myself,  aunt,  I  am  sure,'  said  I. 

'  Well,  then,  why  don't  you  think  so  ?  '    said  my  aunt. 

'  Because  you  and  I  are  very  different  people,'  I  returned. 

'  Stuff  and  nonsense,  Trot  !  '  replied  my  aunt. 


DEPRESSION  325 

My  aunt  went  on  with  a  quiet  enjoyment,  in  which  there  was  very  little  affectation, 
if'any  ;   drinking  the  warm  ale  with  a.  tea-spoon,  and  soiikiiig  her  strips  of  toast  in  it. 

'  Trot,'  said  she,  '  I  don't  care  for  strange  faces  in  general,  but  I  rather  like  that 
IJurkis  of  yours,  do  you  know  I  ' 

'  It 's  better  than  a  hundred  pounds  to  hear  you  say  so  !  '   said  I. 

'  It 's  a  most  extraordinary  world,'  observed  my  aunt,  rubbing  her  nose  ;  '  how 
that  woman  ever  got  into  it  with  that  name,  is  unaccountable  to  me.  It  would  be 
mtich  more  easy  to  be  born  a  Jackson,  or  something  of  that  sort,  one  would  think.' 

'  Perhaps  she  thinks  so,  too  ;    it 's  not  her  fault,'  said  I. 

'  I  suppose  not,'  returned  my  aunt,  rather  grudging  the  admission  ;  '  but  it 's 
very  aggravating.  However,  she  's  Barkis  now.  That 's  some  comfort.  Barkis  is 
uncommonly  fond  of  you,  Trot.' 

'  There  is  nothing  she  would  leave  undone  to  prove  it,'  said  I. 

'  Nothing,  I  believe,'  returned  my  aunt.  '  Here,  the  poor  fool  has  been  begging 
and  praying  about  handing  over  some  of  her  money — because  she  has  got  too  much 
of  it  !     A  simpleton  !  ' 

My  aunt's  tears  of  pleasure  were  positively  trickling  down  into  the  warm  ale. 

'  She  's  the  most  ridiculous  creature  that  ever  was  born,'  said  my  aunt.  '  I  knew, 
from  the  first  moment  when  I  saw  her  with  that  poor  dear  blessed  baby  of  a  mother 
of  yours,  that  she  was  the  most  ridiculous  of  mortals.  But  there  are  good  points  in 
Barkis  ! ' 

Affecting  to  laugh,  she  got  an  opportunity  of  putting  her  hand  to  her  eyes. 
Having  availed  herself  of  it,  she  resumed  her  toast  and  her  discourse  together. 

'  Ah  !  Mercy  upon  us  !  '  sighed  my  aunt.  '  I  know  all  about  it.  Trot !  Barkis 
and  myself  had  quite  a  gossip  while  you  were  out  with  Dick.  I  know  all  about  it. 
I  don't  know  where  these  wretched  girls  expect  to  go  to,  for  my  part.  I  wonder  they 
don't  knock  out  their  brains  against — against  mantelpieces,'  said  my  aunt ;  an  idea 
which  was  probably  suggested  to  her  by  her  contemplation  of  mine. 

'  Poor  Emily  !  '    said  I. 

'  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  poor,'  returned  my  aunt.  '  She  should  have  thought 
of  that,  before  she  caused  so  much  misery  !  Give  me  a  kiss,  Trot.  I  am  sorry  for 
your  early  experience.' 

As  I  bent  forward,  she  put  her  tumbler  on  my  knee  to  detain  me,  and  said — 

'  Oh,  Trot,  Trot !     And  so  you  fancy  yourself  in  love  !     Do  you  ?  ' 

'  Fancy,  aunt  !  '  I  exclaimed,  as  red  as  I  could  be.  '  I  adore  her  with  my  whole 
soul ! ' 

'  Dora,  indeed  !  '  returned  my  aunt.  '  And  you  mean  to  say  the  little  thing  is 
very  fascinating,  I  suppose  ?  ' 

'  My  dear  aunt,'  I  replied,  '  no  one  can  form  the  least  idea  what  she  is ! ' 

'  Ah  !     And  not  silly  ?  '    said  my  aunt. 

'  Silly,  aunt  !  ' 

I  seriously  believe  it  had  never  once  entered  my  head  for  a  single  moment,  to 
consider  whether  she  was  or  not.  I  resented  the  idea,  of  course  ;  but  I  was  in  a 
manner  struck  by  it,  as  a  new  one  altogether. 

'  Not  light-headed  ?  '    said  my  aunt. 

'  Light-headed,  aunt  !  '  I  could  only  repeat  this  daring  speculation  with  the 
same  kind  of  feeling  with  which  I  had  repeated  the  preceding  question. 

'  Well,  well  !  '   said  my  aunt.     '  I  only  ask.     I  don't  depreciate  her.     Poor  little 


326  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

couple  !     And  so  you  think  you  were  forn^ed  for  one  another,  and  are  to  go  through 
a  party-supper-table  kind  of  life,  like  two  pretty  pieces  of  confectionery,  do  you, 

Trot  ?  ' 

She  asked  me  this  so  kindly,  and  with  such  a  gentle  air,  half  playful  and  half 
sorrowful,  that  I  was  quite  touched. 

'  We  are  young  and  inexperienced,  aunt,  I  know,'  I  replied  ;  '  and  I  dare  say 
we  say  and  think  a  good  deal  that  is  rather  foolish.  But  we  love  one  another  truly, 
I  am  sure.  If  I  thought  Dora  could  ever  love  anybody  else,  or  cease  to  love  me  ;  or 
that  I  could  ever  love  anybody  else,  or  cease  to  love  her  ;  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do — go  out  of  my  mind,  I  think  !  ' 

'  Ah,  Trot  !  '  said  my  aunt,  shaking  her  head,  and  smiling  gravely,  '  blind,  blind, 
blind  ! ' 

'  Some  one  that  I  know,  Trot,'  my  aunt  pursued,  after  a  pause,  '  though  of  a 
very  pliant  disposition,  has  an  earnestness  of  affection  in  him  that  reminds  me  of 
poor  Baby.  Earnestness  is  what  that  somebody  must  look  for,  to  sustain  him  and 
improve  him,  Trot.     Deep,  downright,  faithful  earnestness.' 

'  If  you  only  knew  the  earnestness  of  Dora,  aunt  !  '   I  cried. 

'  Oh,  Trot  !  '  she  said  again  ;  '  blind,  blind  !  '  and  without  knowing  why,  I  felt 
a  vague  unhappy  loss  or  want  of  something  overshadow  me  like  a  cloud. 

'  However,'  said  my  aunt,  '  I  don't  want  to  put  two  young  creatures  out  of  conceit 
with  themselves,  or  to  make  them  unhappy  ;  so,  though  it  is  a  girl  and  boy  attach- 
ment, and  girl  and  boy  attachments  very  often — mind  !  I  don't  say  always  ! — come 
to  nothing,  still  we  '11  be  serious  about  it,  and  hope  for  a  prosperous  issue  one  of  these 
days.     There  's  time  enough  for  it  to  come  to  anything.' 

This  was  not  upon  the  whole  very  comforting  to  a  rapturous  lover  ;  but  I  was 
glad  to  have  my  aunt  in  my  confidence,  and  I  was  mindful  of  her  being  fatigued.  So 
I  thanked  her  ardently  for  this  mark  of  her  affection,  and  for  all  her  other  kindnesses 
towards  me  :   and  after  a  tender  good-night,  she  took  her  night-cap  into  my  bedroom. 

How  miserable  I  was,  when  I  lay  down.  How  I  thought  and  thought  about  my 
being  poor,  in  Mr.  Spenlow's  eyes  ;  about  my  not  being  what  I  thought  I  was,  when  I 
proposed  to  Doi-a  ;  al^out  the  chivalrous  necessity  of  telling  Dora  what  my  worldly 
condition  was,  and  releasing  her  from  her  engagement  if  she  thought  fit ;  about  how 
I  should  contrive  to  live,  during  the  long  term  of  my  articles,  when  I  was  earning 
nothing ;  about  doing  something  to  assist  my  aunt,  and  seeing  no  way  of  doing  any- 
thing ;  about  coming  down  to  have  no  money  in  my  pocket,  and  to  wear  a  shabby 
coat,  and  to  be  able  to  carry  Dora  no  little  presents,  and  to  ride  no  gallant  greys,  and 
to  show  myself  in  no  agreeable  light !  Sordid  and  selfish  as  I  knew  it  was,  and  as  I 
tortured  myself  by  knowing  that  it  was,  to  let  my  mind  run  on  my  own  distress  so 
much,  I  was  so  devoted  to  Dora  that  I  could  not  help  it.  I  knew  that  it  was  base  in 
me  not  to  think  more  of  my  aunt,  and  less  of  myself ;  but,  so  far,  selfishness  was 
inseparable  from  Dora,  and  I  could  not  put  Dora  on  one  side  for  any  mortal  creature. 
How  exceedingly  miserable  I  was,  that  night ! 

As  to  sleep,  I  had  dreams  of  poverty  in  all  sorts  of  shapes,  but  I  seemed  to  dream 
without  the  previous  ceremony  of  going  to  sleep.  Now  I  was  ragged,  wanting  to  sell 
Dora  matches,  six  bundles  for  a  halfpenny  ;  now  I  was  at  the  office  in  a  night-gown 
and  boots,  remonstrated  with  by  Mr.  Spenlow  on  appearing  before  the  clients  in  that 
airy  attire  ;  now  I  was  hungrily  picking  up  the  crumbs  that  fell  from  old  Tiffey's 
daily  biscuit,  regularly  eaten    when  St.  Paul's   struck  one  :    now  I  was    hopelessly 


DEPRESSION  327 

endeavouring  to  get  a  licence  to  marry  Dora,  having  nothing  hut  one  of  Uriah  Hcep's 
gloves  to  offer  in  exchange,  whicli  the  whole  Coininons  rejected  ;  and  still,  more  or 
less  conscious  of  my  own  room,  1  was  always  tossing  al)Out  like  a  distressed  ship  in  a 
sea  of  bed-clothcs. 

My  aimt  was  restless,  too,  for  I  freciuently  heard  her  walking  to  and  fro.  Two 
or  three  times  in  the  course  of  the  night,  attired  in  a  long  flannel  wrapper  in  which 
she  looked  seven  feet  high,  she  appeared,  like  a  disturbed  ghost,  in  my  room,  and  came 
to  the  side  of  the  sofa  on  which  I  lay.  On  the  first  occasion  I  started  up  in  alarm, 
to  learn  that  she  inferred  from  a  particular  light  in  the  sky,  that  Westminster  Abhey 
was  on  fire  ;  and  to  be  consulted  in  reference  to  the  probability  of  its  igniting 
Buckingham  Street,  in  case  the  wind  changed.  Lying  still,  after  that,  I  found  that 
she  sat  down  near  me,  whispering  to  herself  '  Poor  boy  !  '  And  then  it  made  me 
twenty  times  more  wretched,  to  know  how  unselfishly  mindful  she  was  of  me,  and 
how  selfishly  mindful  I  was  of  myself. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  a  night  so  long  to  me,  could  be  short  to  anybody 
else.  This  consideration  set  me  thinking  and  thinking  of  an  imaginary  party  where 
people  were  dancing  the  hours  away,  until  that  became  a  dream  too,  and  I  heard  the 
music  incessantly  playing  one  tune,  and  saw  Dora  incessantly  dancing  one  dance, 
without  taking  the  least  notice  of  me.  The  man  who  had  been  playing  the  harp  all 
night,  was  trying  in  vain  to  cover  it  with  an  ordinary-sized  night-cap,  when  I  awoke  ; 
or  I  should  rather  say,  when  I  left  off  trying  to  go  to  sleep,  and  saw  the  sun  shining  in 
through  the  window  at  last. 

There  was  an  old  Roman  bath  in  those  days  at  the  bottom  of  one  of  the  streets 
out  of  the  Strand — it  may  be  there  still — in  which  I  have  had  many  a  cold  plunge. 
Dressing  myself  as  quietly  as  I  could,  and  leaving  Peggotty  to  look  after  my  aimt, 
I  tumbled  head  foremost  into  it,  and  then  went  for  a  walk  to  Hampstead.  I  had  a 
hope  that  this  brisk  treatment  might  freshen  my  wits  a  little  ;  and  I  think  it  did 
them  good,  for  I  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  first  step  I  ought  to  take  was 
to  try  if  my  articles  could  be  cancelled  and  the  premium  recovered.  I  got  some  break- 
fast on  the  Heath,  and  walked  back  to  Doctors'  Commons,  along  the  watered  roads 
and  through  a  pleasant  smell  of  summer  flowers,  growing  in  gardens  and  carried  into 
town  on  hucksters'  heads,  intent  on  this  first  effort  to  meet  our  altered  circumstances. 

I  arrived  at  the  office  so  soon,  after  all,  that  I  had  half  an  hour's  loitering  about 
the  Commons,  before  old  Tiffey,  who  was  always  first,  appeared  with  his  key.  Then  I 
sat  down  in  my  shady  corner,  looking  up  at  the  sunlight  on  the  opposite  chimney-pots, 
and  thinking  about  Dora  ;   until  Mr.  Spenlow  came  in,  crisp  and  curly. 

'  How  are  you,  Copperfield  ?  '    said  he.     '  Fine  morning  !  ' 

'  Beautiful  morning,  sir,'  said  I.  '  Could  I  say  a  word  to  you  before  you  go  into 
Court  ?  • 

'  By  all  means,'  said  he.     '  Come  into  my  room.' 

I  followed  him  into  his  room,  and  he  began  putting  on  his  gown,  and  touching 
himself  up  before  a  little  glass  he  had,  hanging  inside  a  closet  door. 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say,'  said  I,  '  that  I  have  some  rather  disheartening  inteUigence 
from  my  aunt.' 

'  No  !  '   said  he.     '  Dear  me  !     Not  paralysis,  I  hope  ?  ' 

'  It  has  no  reference  to  her  health,  sir,'  I  replied.  '  She  has  met  with  some  large 
losses.     In  fact,  she  has  very  little  left,  indeed.' 

'  You  as-tound  me,  Copperfield  !  '    cried  Mr.  Spenlow. 


328  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  shook  my  head.  '  Indeed,  sir,'  said  J,  '  her  affairs  are  so  changed,  that  I  wished 
to  ask  you  whether  it  would  be  possible — at  a  sacrifice  on  our  part  of  some  portion  of 
the  premium,  of  course,'  I  put  in  this,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  warned  by  the  blank 
expression  of  his  face — '  to  cancel  my  articles  ?  ' 

What  it  cost  me  to  make  this  proposal,  nobody  knows.  It  was  like  asking,  as  a 
favour,  to  be  sentenced  to  transportation  from  Dora. 

'  To  cancel  your  articles,  Copperfield  ?     Cancel  ?  ' 

I  explained  with  tolerable  firmness,  that  I  really  did  not  know  where  my  means 
of  subsistence  were  to  come  from,  unless  I  could  earn  them  for  myself.  I  had  no  fear 
for  the  future,  I  said — and  I  laid  great  emphasis  on  that,  as  if  to  imply  that  I  should 
still  be  decidedly  eligible  for  a  son-in-law  one  of  these  days — but,  for  the  present,  I 
was  thrown  upon  my  own  resources. 

'  I  am  extremely  sorry  to  hear  this,  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  '  Extremely 
sorry.  It  is  not  usual  to  cancel  articles  for  any  such  reason.  It  is  not  a  professional 
course  of  proceeding.  It  is  not  a  convenient  precedent  at  all.  Far  from  it.  At  the 
same  time ' 

'  You  are  very  good,  sir,'  I  murmured,  anticipating  a  concession. 

'  Not  at  all.  Don't  mention  it,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  '  At  the  same  time,  I  was 
going  to  say,  if  it  had  been  my  lot  to  have  my  hands  unfettered — if  I  had  not  a 
partner — Mr.  Jorkins ' 

My  hopes  were  dashed  in  a  moment,  but  I  made  another  effort. 

'  Do  you  think,  sir,'  said  I,  '  if  I  were  to  mention  it  to  Mr.  Jorkins- 


Mr.  Spenlow  shook  his  head  discouragingly.  '  Heaven  forbid,  Copperfield,'  he 
replied,  '  that  I  should  do  any  man  an  injustice  :  still  less,  Mr.  Jorkins.  But  I  know 
my  partner,  Copperfield.  Mr.  Jorkins  is  not  a  man  to  respond  to  a  proposition  of  this 
peculiar  nature.  Mr.  Jorkins  is  very  difficult  to  move  from  the  beaten  track.  You 
know  what  he  is  !  ' 

I  am  sure  I  knew  nothing  about  him,  except  that  he  had  originally  been  alone  in 
the  business,  and  now  lived  by  himself  in  a  house  near  Montagu  Square,  which  was 
fearfully  in  want  of  painting  ;  that  he  came  very  late  of  a  day,  and  went  away  very 
early  ;  that  he  never  appeared  to  be  consulted  about  anything ;  and  that  he  had  a 
dingy  little  black-hole  of  his  own  upstairs  where  no  business  was  ever  done,  and  where 
there  was  a  yellow  old  cartridge-paper  pad  upon  his  desk,  unsoiled  by  ink,  and 
reported  to  be  twenty  years  of  age. 

'  Would  you  object  to  my  mentioning  it  to  him,  sir  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  By  no  means,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  '  But  I  have  some  experience  of  Mr.  Jorkins, 
Copperfield.  I  wish  it  were  otherwise,  for  I  should  be  happy  to  meet  your  views  in 
any  respect.  I  cannot  have  the  least  objection  to  your  mentioning  it  to  Mr.  Jorkins, 
Copperfield,  if  you  think  it  worth  while.' 

Availing  myself  of  this  permission,  which  was  given  with  a  warm  shake  of  the 
hand,  I  sat  thinking  about  Dora,  and  looking  at  the  sunlight  stealing  from  the  chimney- 
pots down  the  wall  of  the  opposite  house,  until  Mr.  Jorkins  came.  I  then  went  up  to 
Mr.  Jorkins's  room,  and  evidently  astonished  Mr.  Jorkins  very  much  by  making  my 
appearance  there. 

'  Come  in,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Jorkins.     '  Come  in  !  ' 

I  went  in,  and  sat  down  ;  and  stated  my  case  to  Mr.  Jorkins  pretty  much  as  I 
had  stated  it  to  Mr.  Spenlow.  Mr.  Jorkins  was  not  by  any  means  the  awful  creature 
one  might  have  expected,  but  a  large,  mild,  smooth-faced  man  of  sixty,  who  took  so 


DEPRESSION  829 

much  snuff  that  there  was  a  tradition  in  the  Commons  that  he  lived  principally  on 
that  stimulant,  having  little  room  in  his  system  for  any  otlier  article  (A  diet. 

'  You  have  mentioned  this  to  Mr.  Spenlow,  I  suppose  ?  '  said  Mr.  Jorkins  ;  when 
he  had  heard  me,  very  restlessly,  to  an  end. 

I  answered  Yes,  and  told  him  that  Mr.  Spenlow  had  introdu(;ed  his  name. 

'  He  said  I  should  object  ?  '    asked  Mr.  Jorkins. 

I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  Mr.  Spenlow  had  considered  it  probable. 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  can't  advance  your  object,'  said  -Mr.  .Jorkins, 
nervously.  '  The  fact  is — but  I  have  an  appointment  at  the  Bank,  if  you  'II  have  the 
goodness  to  excuse  me.' 

With  that  he  rose  in  a  great  hurry,  and  was  going  out  of  the  room,  when  I  made 
bold  to  say  that  I  feared,  then,  there  was  no  way  of  arranging  the  mutter  ? 

'  No  !  '  said  Mr.  Jorkins,  stopping  at  the  door  to  shake  his  head.  '  Oh  no  !  I 
object,  you  know,'  which  he  said  very  rapidly,  and  went  out.  '  You  must  be  aware, 
Mr.  Copperfield,'  he  added,  looking  restlessly  at  the  door  again,  '  if  Mr.  Spenlow 
objects ' 

'  Personally,  he  does  not  object,  sir,'  said  I. 

'  Oh  !  Personally  !  '  repeated  Mr.  Jorkins,  in  an  impatient  manner.  '  I  assure 
you  there  's  an  objection,  Mr.  Copperfield.  Hopeless  !  What  you  wish  to  be  done, 
can't  be  done.  I — I  really  have  got  an  appointment  at  the  Bank.'  With  that  he 
fairly  ran  away  ;  and  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  it  was  three  days  before  he  showed 
himself  in  the  Commons  again. 

Being  very  anxious  to  leave  no  stone  unturned,  I  waited  until  Mr.  Spenlow  came 
in,  and  then  described  what  had  passed  ;  giving  him  to  understand  that  I  was  not 
hopeless  of  his  being  able  to  soften  the  adamantine  Jorkins,  if  he  would  undertake 
the  task. 

'  Copperfield,'  returned  Mr.  Spenlow,  with  a  gracious  smile,  '  you  have  not  known 
my  partner,  Mr.  Jorkins,  as  long  as  I  have.  Nothing  is  farther  from  my  thoughts 
than  to  attribute  any  degree  of  artifice  to  Mr.  Jorkins.  But  Mr.  Jorkins  has  a  way 
of  stating  his  objections  which  often  deceives  people.  No,  Copperfield  !  '  shaking  his 
head.     '  Mr.  Jorkins  is  not  to  be  moved,  believe  me  !  ' 

I  was  completely  bewildered  between  Mr.  Spenlow  and  Mr.  Jorkins,  as  to  which  of 
them  really  was  the  objecting  partner  ;  but  I  saw  with  sufficient  clearness  that  there 
was  obduracy  somewhere  in  the  firm,  and  that  the  recovery  of  my  aunt's  thousand 
pounds  was  out  of  the  question.  In  a  state  of  despondency,  which  I  remember 
with  anything  but  satisfaction,  for  I  know  it  still  had  too  much  reference  to  myself 
(though  always  in  connection  with  Dora),  I  left  the  office,  and  went  homeward. 

I  was  trying  to  familiarise  my  mind  with  the  worst,  and  to  present  to  myself  the 
arrangements  we  should  have  to  make  for  the  future  in  their  sternest  aspect,  when  a 
hackney-chariot  coming  after  me,  and  stopping  at  my  very  feet,  occasioned  me  to 
look  up.  A  fair  hand  was  stretched  forth  to  me  from  the  window  ;  and  the  face  I 
had  never  seen  without  a  feeling  of  serenity  and  happiness,  from  the  moment  when 
it  first  turned  back  on  the  old  oak  staircase  with  the  great  broad  balustrade,  and  when 
I  associated  its  softened  beauty  with  the  stained-glass  window  in  the  church,  was 
smiling  on  me. 

'  Agnes  !  '  I  joyfully  exclaimed.  '  Oh,  my  dear  Agnes,  of  all  people  in  the  world, 
what  a  pleasure  to  see  you  ! ' 

'  Is  it,  indeed  ?  '   she  said,  in  her  cordial  voice. 

l2 


330  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  I  want  to  talk  to  you  so  much  ! '  said  I.  '  It 's  such  a  lightening  of  my  heart, 
only  to  look  at  you  !  If  I  had  had  a  conjuror's  cap,  there  is  no  one  I  should  have 
wished  for  but  you  !  ' 

'  What  ?  '   returned  Agnes. 

'  Well !   perhaps  Dora  first,'  I  admitted,  with  a  blush. 

'  Certainly,  Dora  first,  I  hope,'  said  Agnes,  laughing. 

'  But  you  next !  '    said  I.     '  W^here  are  you  going  ?  ' 

She  was  going  to  my  rooms  to  see  my  aunt.  The  day  being  very  fine,  she  was 
glad  to  come  out  of  the  chariot,  which  smelt  (I  had  my  head  in  it  all  this  time)  like  a 
stable  put  under  a  cucumber-frame.  I  dismissed  the  coachman,  and  she  took  my 
arm,  and  we  walked  on  together.  She  was  like  Hope  embodied,  to  me.  How 
different  I  felt  in  one  short  minute,  having  Agnes  at  my  side  ! 

My  aunt  had  written  her  one  of  the  odd,  abrupt  notes, — very  little  longer  than  a 
bank-note — to  which  her  epistolary  efforts  were  usually  limited.  She  had  stated 
therein  that  she  had  fallen  into  adversity,  and  was  leaving  Dover  for  good,  but  had 
quite  made  up  her  mind  to  it,  and  was  so  well  that  nobody  need  be  uncomfortable 
about  her.  Agnes  had  come  to  London  to  see  my  aunt,  between  whom  and  herself 
there  had  been  a  mutual  liking  these  many  years  ;  indeed,  it  dated  from  the  time  of 
my  taking  up  my  residence  in  Mr.  Wickfield's  house.  She  was  not  alone,  she  said. 
Her  papa  was  with  her — and  Uriah  Heep. 

'  And  now  they  are  partners,'  said  I.     '  Confound  him  !  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Agnes.  '  They  have  some  business  here  ;  and  I  took  advantage  of 
their  coming,  to  come  too.  You  must  not  think  my  visit  all  friendly  and  dis- 
interested, Trotwood,  for — I  am  afraid  I  may  be  cruelly  prejudiced— I  do  not  like 
to  let  papa  go  away  alone,  with  him.' 

'  Does  he  exercise  the  same  influence  over  Mr.  Wickfield  still,  Agnes  ?  ' 

Agnes  shook  her  head.  '  There  is  such  a  change  at  home,'  said  she,  '  that  you 
would  scarcely  know  the  dear  old  house.     They  live  with  us  now.' 

'  They  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Mr.  Heep  and  his  mother.  He  sleeps  in  your  old  room,'  said  Agnes,  looking 
up  into  my  face. 

'  I  wish  I  had  the  ordering  of  his  dreams,'  said  I.     '  He  wouldn't  sleep  there  long.' 

'  I  keep  my  own  little  room,'  said  Agnes,  '  where  I  used  to  learn  my  lessons. 
How  the  time  goes  !     You  remember  ?     The  little  panelled  room  that  opens  from 
the  drawing-room  ?  ' 

'  Remember,  Agnes  ?  When  I  saw  you,  for  the  first  time,  coming  out  at  the 
door,  with  your  quaint  little  basket  of  keys  hanging  at  your  side  ?  ' 

'  It  is  just  the  same,'  said  Agnes,  smiling.  '  I  am  glad  you  think  of  it  so 
pleasantly.     We  were  very  happy.' 

'  We  were  indeed,'  said  I. 

'  I  keep  that  room  to  myself  still  ;  but  I  cannot  always  desert  Mrs.  Heep,  you 
know.  And  so,'  said  Agnes,  quietly,  '  I  feel  obliged  to  bear  her  company,  when  I 
might  prefer  to  be  alone.  But  I  have  no  other  reason  to  complain  of  her.  If  she 
tries  me,  sometimes,  by  her  praises  of  her  son,  it  is  only  natural  in  a  mother.  He  is 
a  very  good  son  to  her.' 

I  looked  at  Agnes  when  she  said  these  words,  without  detecting  in  her  any  con- 
sciousness of  Uriah's  design.  Her  mild  but  earnest  eyes  met  mine  with  her  own 
beautiful  frankness,  and  there  was  no  change  in  her  gentle  face. 


DEPRESSION  881 

'  The  chief  evil  of  their  presence  in  the  house,'  said  Agnes,  '  is  that  I  cannot  be  as 
near  papa  as  I  could  wish — Uriah  Ilcep  being  so  much  between  us — and  cannot  watch 
over  him,  if  that  is  not  too  bold  a  thing  to  say,  as  closely  as  I  would.  But,  if  any 
fraud  or  treachery  is  practising  against  him,  I  hope  that  simple  love  and  truth  will 
be  stronger,  in  the  end.  I  hope  that  real  love  and  truth  are  stronger  in  the  end  than 
any  evil  or  misfortune  in  the  world.' 

A  certain  bright  smile,  which  I  never  saw  on  any  other  face,  died  away,  even 
while  I  thought  how  good  it  was,  and  liow  familiar  it  had  once  been  to  me  ;  and  she 
asked  me,  with  a  quick  change  of  expression  (we  were  drawing  very  near  my  street), 
if  I  knew  how  the  reverse  in  my  aunt's  circumstances  had  been  brought  about.  On 
my  replying  no,  she  had  not  told  me  yet,  Agnes  became  thoughtful,  and  I  fancied  I 
felt  her  arm  tremble  in  mine. 

We  found  my  aunt  alone,  in  a  state  of  some  excitement.  A  difference  of  opinion 
had  arisen  between  herself  and  Mrs.  C'rupp,  on  an  abstract  question  (the  propriety 
of  chambers  being  inhabited  by  the  gentler  sex) ;  and  my  aunt,  utterly  indifferent 
to  spasms  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  had  cut  the  dispute  short,  by  informing  that 
lady  that  she  smelt  of  my  brandy,  and  that  she  would  trouble  her  to  walk  out.  Both 
of  these  expressions  Mrs.  Crupp  considered  actionable,  and  had  expressed  her  intention 
of  bringing  before  a  '  British  Judy  ' — meaning,  it  was  supposed,  the  bulwark  of  our 
national  liberties. 

My  aunt,  however,  having  had  time  to  cool,  while  Peggotty  was  out  showing 
Mr.  Dick  the  soldiers  at  the  Horse  Guards — and  being,  besides,  greatly  pleased  to  see 
Agnes — rather  plumed  herself  on  the  affair  than  otherwise,  and  received  us  with 
unimpaired  good-humour.  \Vhen  Agnes  laid  her  bonnet  on  the  table,  and  sat  down 
beside  her,  I  could  not  but  think,  looking  on  her  mild  eyes  and  her  radiant  forehead, 
how  natural  it  seemed  to  have  her  there,  how  trustfully,  although  she  was  so  young 
and  inexperienced,  my  aunt  confided  in  her  ;  how  strong  she  was,  indeed,  in  simple 
love  and  truth. 

We  began  to  talk  about  my  aunt's  losses,  and  I  told  them  what  I  had  tried  to 
do  that  morning. 

'  Which  was  injudicious.  Trot,'  said  my  aunt,  '  but  well  meant.  You  are  a 
generous  boy — I  suppose  I  must  say,  young  man,  now — and  I  am  proud  of  you, 
my  dear.  So  far  so  good.  Now,  Trot  and  Agnes,  let  us  look  the  case  of  Betsey 
Trotwood  in  the  face,  and  see  how  it  stands.' 

I  observed  Agnes  turn  pale,  as  she  looked  very  attentively  at  my  aunt.  My  aunt, 
patting  her  cat,  looked  very  attentively  at  Agnes. 

'  Betsey  Trotwood,'  said  my  aunt,  who  had  always  kept  her  money  matters  to 
herself  :  '  — I  don't  mean  your  sister.  Trot,  my  dear,  but  myself — had  a  certain 
property.  It  don't  matter  how  much  ;  enough  to  live  on.  More  ;  for  she  had  saved 
a  little,  and  added  to  it.  Betsey  funded  her  property  for  some  time,  and  then,  by 
the  advice  of  her  man  of  business,  laid  it  out  on  landed  security.  That  did  very  well, 
and  returned  very  good  interest,  till  Betsey  was  paid  off.  I  am  talking  of  Betsey  as 
if  she  was  a  man-of-war.  Well !  Then,  Betsey  had  to  look  about  her,  for  a  new 
investment.  She  thought  she  was  wiser,  now,  than  her  man  of  business,  who  was  not 
such  a  good  man  of  business  by  this  time,  as  he  used  to  be — I  am  alluding  to  your 
father,  Agnes — and  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  lay  it  out  for  herself.  So  she  took  her 
pigs,'  said  my  aunt,  '  to  a  foreign  market ;  and  a  very  bad  market  it  turned  out  to 
be.     First,  she  lost  in  the  mining  way,  and  then  she  lost  in  the  diving  way — fishing 


332  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

up  treasure,  or  some  such  Tom  Tidier  nonsense,'  explained  my  aunt,  rubbing  her 
nose ;  '  and  then  she  lost  in  the  mining  way  again,  and,  last  of  all,  to  set  the  thing 
entirely  to  rights,  she  lost  in  the  banking  way.  I  don't  know  what  the  bank  shares 
were  worth  for  a  little  while,'  said  my  aunt ;  '  cent  per  cent  was  the  lowest  of  it,  I 
believe ;  but  the  bank  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  and  tumbled  into  space,  for 
what  I  know  ;  anyhow,  it  fell  to  pieces,  and  never  will  and  never  can  pay  sixpence  ; 
and  Betsey's  sixpences  were  all  there,  and  there  's  an  end  of  them.  Least  said, 
soonest  mended  ! ' 

My  aunt  concluded  this  philosophical  summary,  by  fixing  her  eyes  with  a  kind  of 
triumph  on  Agnes,  whose  colour  was  gradually  returning. 

'  Dear  Miss  Trotwood,  is  that  all  the  history  ?  '   said  Agnes. 

'  I  hope  it 's  enough,  child,'  said  my  aunt.  '  If  there  had  been  more  money  to 
lose,  it  wouldn't  have  been  all,  I  dare  say.  Betsey  would  have  contrived  to  throw 
that  after  the  rest,  and  make  another  chapter,  I  have  little  doubt.  But,  there  was  no 
more  money,  and  there  's  no  more  story.' 

Agnes  had  listened  at  first  with  suspended  breath.  Her  colour  still  came  and 
went,  but  she  breathed  more  freely.  I  thought  I  knew  why.  I  thought  she  had 
had  some  fear  that  her  unhappy  father  might  be  in  some  way  to  blame  for  what  had 
happened.     My  aunt  took  her  hand  in  hers,  and  laughed. 

'  Is  that  all  ?  '  repeated  my  aunt.  '  Why,  yes,  that 's  all,  except,  "  And  she 
lived  happy  ever  afterwards."  Perhaps  I  may  add  that  of  Betsey  yet,  one  of  these 
days.  Now,  Agnes,  you  have  a  wise  head.  So  have  you.  Trot,  in  some  things,  though 
I  can't  compliment  you  always  '  ;  and  here  my  aunt  shook  her  own  at  me,  with  an 
energy  peculiar  to  herself.  '  What 's  to  be  done  !  Here  's  the  cottage,  taking  one 
time  with  another,  will  produce,  say  seventy  pounds  a  year.  I  think  we  may  safely 
put  it  down  at  that.  Well  ! — That 's  all  we  've  got,'  said  my  aunt ;  with  whom  it 
was  an  idiosyncrasy,  as  it  is  with  some  horses,  to  stop  very  short  when  she  appeared 
to  be  in  a  fair  way  of  going  on  for  a  long  while. 

'  Then,'  said  my  aunt,  after  a  rest,  '  there  's  Dick.  He  's  good  for  a  hundred  a 
year,  but  of  course  that  must  be  expended  on  himself.  I  would  sooner  send  him  away, 
though  I  know  I  am  the  only  person  who  appreciates  him,  than  have  him,  and  not 
spend  his  money  on  himself.  How  can  Trot  and  I  do  best,  upon  our  means  ?  What 
do  you  say,  Agnes  ?  ' 

'  /  say,  aunt,'  I  interposed,  '  that  I  must  do  something  !  ' 

'  Go  for  a  soldier,  do  you  mean  ?  '  returned  my  aunt,  alarmed  ;  '  or  go  to  sea  ? 
I  won't  hear  of  it.  You  are  to  be  a  proctor.  We  're  not  going  to  have  any  knockings 
on  the  head  in  this  family,  if  you  please,  sir.' 

I  was  about  to  explain  that  I  was  not  desirous  of  introducing  that  mode  of 
provision  into  the  family,  when  Agnes  inquired  if  my  rooms  were  held  for  any 
long  term  ? 

'  You  come  to  the  point,  my  dear,'  said  my  aunt.  '  They  are  not  to  be  got  rid 
of,  for  six  months  at  least,  unless  they  could  be  underlet,  and  that  I  don't  believe. 
The  last  man  died  here.  Five  people  out  of  six  would  die — of  course — of  that  woman 
in  nankeen  with  the  flannel  petticoat.  I  have  a  little  ready  money  ;  and  I  agree  with 
you,  the  best  thing  we  can  do,  is,  to  live  the  term  out  here,  and  get  Dick  a  bedroom 
hard  by.' 

I  thought  it  my  duty  to  hint  at  the  discomfort  my  aunt  would  sustain,  from 
living  in  a  continual  state  of  guerilla  warfare  with  Mrs.  Crupp ;  but  she  disposed  of 


DEPRESSION  888 

that  objection  summarily  by  declaring,  that,  on  the  first  demonstration  of  hostilities, 
she  was  prepared  to  astonish  Mrs.  Crupp  for  the  whole  remainder  f)f  her  natural  life. 

'  1  have  been  thinking,  Trotwood,'  said  Agnes,  diffidently,  '  that  if  you  hiul 
time ' 

'  I  have  a  good  deal  of  time,  Agnes.  I  am  always  disengaged  after  four  or  five 
o'clock,  and  I  have  time  early  in  the  morning.  In  one  way  and  another,'  said  I, 
conscious  of  reddening  a  little  as  I  thought  of  the  hours  and  hours  I  had  devoted  to 
fagging  about  town,  and  to  and  fro  upon  the  Norwood  Road,  '  I  have  abundance 
of  time.' 

'  I  know  you  would  not  mind,'  said  Agnes,  coming  to  me,  and  speaking  in  a  low 
voice,  so  full  of  sweet  and  hopeful  consideration  that  I  hear  it  now,  *  the  duties  of  a 
secretary.' 

'  Mind,  my  dear  Agnes  ?  ' 

'  Because,'  continued  Agnes,  '  Doctor  Strong  has  acted  on  his  intention  of  retiring, 
and  has  come  to  live  in  London  ;  and  he  asked  papa,  I  know,  if  he  could  recommend 
him  one.  Don't  you  think  he  would  rather  have  his  favourite  old  pupil  near  him, 
than  anybody  else  ?  ' 

'  Dear  Agnes  !  '  said  I.  '  ^Vhat  should  I  do  without  you  !  You  are  always 
my  good  angel.     I  told  you  so.     I  never  think  of  you  in  any  other  light.' 

Agnes  answered  with  her  pleasant  laugh,  that  one  good  angel  (meaning  Dora) 
was  enough  ;  and  went  on  to  remind  me  that  the  Doctor  had  been  used  to  occupy 
himself  in  his  study,  early  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  evening^and  that  probably  my 
leisure  would  suit  his  requirements  very  well.  I  was  scarcely  more  delighted  with  the 
prospect  of  earning  my  own  bread,  than  with  the  hope  of  earning  it  under  my  old 
master  ;  in  short,  acting  on  the  advice  of  Agnes,  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  the 
Doctor,  stating  my  object,  and  appointing  to  call  on  him  next  day  at  ten  in  the  fore- 
noon. This  I  addressed  to  Highgate — for  in  that  place,  so  memorable  to  me,  he 
lived — and  went  and  posted,  myself,  without  losing  a  minute. 

Wherever  Agnes  was,  some  agreeable  token  of  her  noiseless  presence  seemed 
inseparable  from  the  place.  When  I  came  back,  I  found  my  aunt's  birds  hanging, 
just  as  they  had  hung  so  long  in  the  parlour  window  of  the  cottage  ;  and  my  easy- 
chair  imitating  my  aunt's  much  easier  chair  in  its  position  at  the  open  window  ;  and 
even  the  round  green  fan,  which  my  aunt  had  brought  away  with  her,  screwed  on  to 
the  window-sill.  I  knew  who  had  done  all  this,  by  its  seeming  to  have  quietly  done 
itself  ;  and  I  should  have  known  in  a  moment  who  had  arranged  my  neglected  books 
in  the  old  order  of  my  school  days,  even  if  I  had  supposed  Agnes  to  be  miles  away, 
instead  of  seeing  her  busy  with  them,  and  smiling  at  the  disorder  into  which  they 
had  fallen. 

My  aunt  was  quite  gracious  on  the  subject  of  the  Thames  (it  really  did  look  very 
well  with  the  sun  upon  it,  though  not  like  the  sea  before  the  cottage),  but  she  could 
not  relent  towards  the  London  smoke,  which,  she  said,  '  peppered  everything.'  A 
complete  revolution,  in  which  Peggotty  bore  a  prominent  part,  was  being  effected  in 
every  corner  of  my  rooms,  in  regard  of  this  pepper  ;  and  I  was  looking  on,  thinking 
how  little  even  Peggotty  seemed  to  do  with  a  good  deal  of  bustle,  and  how  much 
Agnes  did  without  any  bustle  at  all,  when  a  knock  came  at  the  door. 

'  I  think,'  said  Agnes,  turning  pale,  '  it 's  papa.  He  promised  me  that  he  would 
come.' 

I  opened  the  door,  and  admitted,  not  only  Mr.  Wickfield,  but  Uriah  Heep.     I 


334  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

had  not  seen  Mr.  Wickfield  for  some  time.  I  was  prepared  for  a  great  change  in  him, 
after  what  I  heard  from  Agnes,  but  his  appearance  shocked  me. 

It  was  not  that  he  looked  many  years  older,  though  still  dressed  with  the  old 
scrupulous  cleanliness  ;  or  that  there  was  an  unwholesome  ruddiness  upon  his  face  ; 
or  that  his  eyes  were  full  and  bloodshot ;  or  that  there  was  a  nervous  trembling  in 
his  hand,  the  cause  of  vvhich  I  knew,  and  had  for  some  years  seen  at  work.  It  was 
not  that  he  had  lost  his  good  looks,  or  his  old  bearing  of  a  gentleman — for  that  he 
had  not — but  the  thing  that  struck  me  most  was,  that  with  the  evidences  of  his  native 
superiority  still  upon  him,  he  should  submit  himself  to  that  crawling  impersonation 
of  meanness,  Uriah  Heep.  The  reversal  of  the  two  natures,  in  their  relative  positions, 
Uriah's  of  power,  and  Mr.  Wickfield's  of  dependence,  was  a  sight  more  painful  to  me 
than  I  can  express.  If  I  had  seen  an  ape  taking  command  of  a  man,  I  should  hardly 
have  thought  it  a  more  degrading  spectacle. 

He  appeared  to  be  only  too  conscious  of  it  himself.  When  he  came  in,  he  stood 
still ;  and  with  his  head  bowed,  as  if  he  felt  it.  This  was  only  for  a  moment ;  for 
Agnes  softly  said  to  him,  '  Papa  ;  here  is  Miss  Trotwood — and  Trotwood,  whom  you 
have  not  seen  for  a  long  while  !  '  and  then  he  approached,  and  constrainedly  gave  my 
aunt  his  hand,  and  shook  hands  more  cordially  with  me.  In  the  moment's  pause  I 
speak  of,  I  saw  Uriah's  countenance  form  itself  into  a  most  ill-favoured  smile.  Agnes 
saw  it  too,  I  think,  for  she  shrank  from  him. 

What  my  aunt  saw,  or  did  not  see,  I  defy  the  science  of  physiognomy  to  have 
made  out,  without  her  own  consent.  I  believe  there  never  was  anybody  with  such  an 
imperturbable  countenance  when  she  chose.  Her  face  might  have  been  a  dead  wall 
on  the  occasion  in  question,  for  any  light  it  threw  upon  her  thoughts  ;  until  she  broke 
silence  with  her  usual  abruptness. 

'  Well,  Wickfield  !  '  said  my  aunt  ;  and  he  looked  up  at  her  for  the  first  time. 
'  I  have  been  telling  your  daughter  how  well  I  have  been  disposing  of  my  money  for 
myself,  because  I  couldn't  trust  it  to  you,  as  you  were  growing  rusty  in  business 
matters.  We  have  been  taking  counsel  together,  and  getting  on  very  well,  all  things 
considered.     Agnes  is  worth  the  whole  firm,  in  my  opinion.' 

'  If  I  may  umbly  make  the  remark,'  said  Uriah  Heep,  with  a  writhe,  '  I  fully 
agree  with  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood,  and  should  be  only  too  appy  if  Miss  Agnes  was 
a  partner.' 

'  You  're  a  partner  yourself,  you  know,'  returned  my  aunt,  '  and  that 's  about 
enough  for  you,  I  expect.     How  do  you  find  yourself,  sir  ?  ' 

In  acknowledgment  of  this  question,  addressed  to  him  with  extraordinary  curt- 
ness,  Mr.  Heep,  uncomfortably  clutching  the  blue  bag  he  carried,  replied  that  he  was 
pretty  well,  he  thanked  my  aunt,  and  hoped  she  was  the  same. 

'  And  you.  Master — I  should  say.  Mister  Copperfield,'  pursued  Uriah.  '  I  hope  I 
see  you  well  !  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you,  Mister  Copperfield,  even  under  present 
circumstances.'  I  believed  that ;  for  he  seemed  to  reHsh  them  very  much.  '  Present 
circumstances  is  not  what  your  friends  would  wish  for  you.  Mister  Copperfield,  but  it 
isn't  money  makes  the  man,  it 's — I  am  really  unequal  with  my  umble  powers  to 
express  what  it  is,'  said  Uriah,  with  a  fawning  jerk,  '  but  it  isn't  money  ! ' 

Here  he  shook  hands  with  me  :  not  in  the  common  way,  but  standing  at  a  good 
distance  from  me,  and  lifting  my  hand  up  and  down  like  a  pump-handle,  that  he  was 
a  little  afraid  of. 

'  And  how  do  you  think  we  are   looking.  Master  Copperfield, — I  should  say, 


DEPRESSION  835 

Mister?'  fawned  Uriah.  '  Don't  you  find  Mr.  VVickficUl  l)loominf»,  sir  ?  Years  don't 
tell  much  in  our  firm,  Master  Copperlicid,  except  in  raising  up  the  umblc,  namely, 
mother  and  self — and  in  developing,'  he  added,  as  an  after-thought,  '  the  beautiful, 
namely.  Miss  Agnes.' 

He  jerked  himself  about,  after  this  compliment,  in  such  an  intolerable  manner, 
that  my  aunt,  who  had  sat  looking  straight  at  him,  lost  all  patience. 

'  Deuce  take  the  man  !  '  said  my  aunt,  sternly,  '  what 's  he  about  ?  Don't  be 
galvanic,  sir  !  ' 

'  I  ask  your  pardon,  Miss  Trotwood,*  returned  Uriah  ;  '  I  'm  aware  you  're 
nervous.' 

'  Go  along  with  you,  sir  !  '  said  my  aunt,  anything  but  appeased.  '  Don't  pre- 
sume to  say  so  1  I  am  nothing  of  the  sort.  If  you  're  an  eel,  sir,  conduct  yourself 
like  one.  It  you  're  a  man,  control  your  limbs,  sir  !  Good  God  !  '  said  my  aunt, 
with  great  indignation,  '  I  am  not  going  to  be  serpentined  and  corkscrewed  out  of 
my  senses  !  ' 

Mr.  Heep  was  rather  abashed,  as  most  people  might  have  been,  by  this  explosion  ; 
which  derived  great  additional  force  from  the  indignant  manner  in  which  my  aunt 
afterwards  moved  in  her  chair,  and  shook  her  head  as  if  she  were  making  snaps  or 
bounces  at  him.     But,  he  said  to  me  aside  in  a  meek  voice — 

'  I  am  well  aware.  Master  Copperfield,  that  Miss  Trotwood,  though  an  excellent 
lady,  has  a  quick  temper  (indeed  I  think  I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  her,  when  I 
was  a  numble  clerk,  before  you  did.  Master  Copperfield),  and  it 's  only  natural,  I  am 
sure,  that  it  should  be  made  quicker  by  present  circumstances.  The  wonder  is,  that 
it  isn't  much  worse  !  I  only  called  to  say  that  if  there  was  anything  we  could  do, 
in  present  circumstances,  mother  or  self,  or  Wickfield  and  Heep,  we  should  be  really 
glad.     I  may  go  so  far  ?  '   said  Uriah,  with  a  sickly  smile  at  his  partner. 

'  Uriah  Heep,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  in  a  monotonous  forced  way,  '  is  active  in  the 
business,  Trotwood.  What  he  says,  I  quite  concur  in.  You  know  I  had  an  old 
interest  in  you.     Apart  from  that,  what  Uriah  says  I  quite  concur  in  !  ' 

'  Oh,  what  a  reward  it  is,'  said  Uriah,  drawing  up  one  leg,  at  the  risk  of  bringing 
down  upon  himself  another  visitation  from  my  aunt,  '  to  be  so  trusted  in  !  But  I 
hope  I  am  able  to  do  something  to  relieve  him  from  the  fatigues  of  business.  Master 
Copperfield  !  ' 

'  Uriah  Heep  is  a  great  relief  to  me,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  in  the  same  dull  voice. 
'  It 's  a  load  off  my  mind,  Trotwood,  to  have  such  a  partner.' 

The  red  fox  made  him  say  all  this,  I  knew,  to  exhibit  him  to  me  in  the  fight  he  had 
indicated  on  the  night  when  he  poisoned  my  rest.  I  saw  the  same  ill-favoured  smile 
upon  his  face  again,  and  saw  how  he  watched  me. 

'  You  are  not  going,  papa  ?  '  said  Agnes,  anxiously.  '  Will  you  not  walk  back 
with  Trotwood  and  me  ?  ' 

He  would  have  looked  to  Uriah,  I  believe,  before  replying,  if  that  worthy  had  not 
anticipated  him. 

'  I  am  bespoke  myself,'  said  Uriah,  '  on  business  ;  otherwise  I  should  have  been 
appy  to  have  kept  with  my  friends.  But  I  leave  my  partner  to  represent  the  firm. 
Miss  Agnes,  ever  yours  !  I  wish  you  good-day.  Master  Copperfield,  and  leave  my 
umble  respects  for  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood.' 

With  those  words,  he  retired,  kissing  his  great  hand,  and  leering  at  us  like  a  mask. 

We  sat  there,  talking  about  our  pleasant  old  Canterbury  days,  an  hour  or  two. 


336  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Mr.  Wickfield,  left  to  Agnes,  soon  became  more  like  his  former  self  ;  though  there  was 
a  settled  depression  upon  him,  which  he  never  shook  off.  For  all  that,  he  brightened  ; 
and  had  an  evident  pleasure  in  hearing  us  recall  the  little  incidents  of  our  old  life, 
many  of  which  he  remembered  very  well.  He  said  it  was  like  those  times,  to  be  alone 
vfith.  Agnes  and  me  again  ;  and  he  wished  to  Heaven  they  had  never  changed.  I 
am  sure  there  was  an  influence  in  the  placid  face  of  Agnes,  and  in  the  very  touch  of 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  that  did  wonders  for  him. 

My  aunt  (who  was  busy  nearly  all  this  while  with  Peggotty,  in  the  inner  room) 
would  not  accompany  us  to  the  place  where  they  were  staying,  but  insisted  on  my 
going  ;  and  I  went.  We  dined  together.  After  dinner,  Agnes  sat  beside  him,  as  of 
old,  and  poured  out  his  wine.  He  took  what  she  gave  him,  and  no  more — like  a 
child — and  we  all  three  sat  together  at  a  window  as  the  evening  gathered  in.  When 
it  was  almost  dark,  he  lay  down  on  a  sofa,  Agnes  pillowing  his  head  and  bending  over 
him  a  little  while  ;  and  when  she  came  back  to  the  window,  it  was  not  so  dark  but  I 
could  see  tears  glittering  in  her  eyes. 

I  pray  Heaven  that  I  never  may  forget  the  dear  girl  in  her  love  and  truth,  at 
that  time  of  my  life  ;  for  if  I  should,  I  must  be  drawing  near  the  end,  and  then  I 
would  desire  to  remember  her  best  !  She  filled  my  heart  with  such  good  resolutions, 
strengthened  my  weakness  so,  by  her  example,  so  directed — I  know  not  how,  she  was 
too  modest  and  gentle  to  advise  me  in  many  words — the  wandering  ardour  and  un- 
settled purpose  within  me,  that  all  the  little  good  I  have  done,  and  all  the  harm  I 
have  forborne,  I  solemnly  believe  I  may  refer  to  her. 

And  how  she  spoke  to  me  of  Dora,  sitting  at  the  window  in  the  dark  ;  listened  to 
my  praises  of  her  ;  praised  again  ;  and  round  the  little  fairy-figure  shed  some  glimpses 
of  her  own  pure  light,  that  made  it  yet  more  precious  and  more  innocent  to  me  !  Oh, 
Agnes,  sister  of  my  boyhood,  if  I  had  known  then,  what  I  knew  long  afterwards  ! — 

There  was  a  beggar  in  the  street,  when  I  went  down  ;  and  as  I  turned  my  head 
towards  the  window,  thinking  of  her  calm  seraphic  eyes,  he  made  me  start  by 
muttering,  as  if  he  were  an  echo  of  the  morning — 

'  Bhnd  !     Blind  !     Blind  !  ' 


CHAPTER    XXXYI 

ENTHUSIASM 

I  BEGAN  the  next  day  with  another  dive  into  the  Roman  bath,  and  then  started 
for  Highgate.  I  was  not  dispirited  now.  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  shabby  coat, 
and  had  no  yearnings  after  gallant  greys.  My  whole  manner  of  thinking  of 
our  late  misfortune  was  changed.  What  I  had  to  do,  was,  to  show  my  aunt 
that  her  past  goodness  to  me  had  not  been  thrown  away  on  an  insensible,  ungrateful 
object.  What  I  had  to  do,  was,  to  turn  the  painful  discipline  of  my  younger  days  to 
account,  by  going  to  work  with  a  resolute  and  steady  heart.  What  I  had  to  do,  was, 
to  take  my  woodman's  axe  in  my  hand,  and  clear  my  own  way  through  the  forest 
of  difficulty,  by  cutting  down  the  trees  until  I  came  to  Dora.  And  I  went  on  at  a 
mighty  rate,  as  if  it  could  be  done  by  walking. 

When  I  found  myself  on  the  familiar  Highgate  road,  pursuing  such  a  different 


r:NTHUSIASM  :m 

errand  from  that  old  one  of  pleasure,  with  which  it  was  associated,  it  seemed  as  if  a 
complete  ehanj^e  had  come  on  my  whole  life.  Jiut  that  did  not  discourage  me.  With 
the  new  life,  came  new  purpose,  new  intention.  Great  was  the  labour  ;  priceless  the 
reward.     Dora  was  the  reward,  and  Dora  must  be  won. 

I  got  into  such  a  transport,  that  I  felt  fjuite  sorry  my  coat  was  not  a  little  shabby 
already.  I  wanted  to  be  cutting  at  those  trees  in  the  forest  of  difficulty,  under 
circumstances  that  should  prove  my  strength.  I  had  a  good  mind  to  ask  an  old 
man,  in  wire  spectacles,  who  was  breaking  stones  upon  the  road,  to  lend  me  his 
hammer  for  a  little  while,  and  let  me  begin  to  beat  a  path  to  Dora  out  of  granite. 
I  stimulated  myself  into  such  a  heat,  and  got  so  out  of  breath,  that  I  felt  as 
if  I  had  been  earning  I  don't  know  how  much.  In  this  state,  I  went  into  a 
cottage  that  I  saw  was  to  let,  and  examined  it  narrowly, — for  I  felt  it  necessary  to 
be  practical. 

It  would  do  for  me  and  Dora  admirably  :  with  a  little  front  garden  for  Jip  to 
nm  about  in,  and  bark  at  the  tradespeople  through  the  railings,  and  a  capital  room 
upstairs  for  my  aunt.  I  came  out  again,  hotter  and  faster  than  ever,  and  dashed  up 
to  Highgate,  at  such  a  rate  that  I  was  there  an  hour  too  early  ;  and,  though  I  had 
not  been,  should  have  been  obliged  to  stroll  about  to  cool  myself,  before  I  was  at  all 
presentable. 

My  first  care,  after  putting  myself  under  this  necessary  course  of  preparation, 
was  to  find  the  Doctor's  house.  It  was  not  in  that  part  of  Highgate  where  Mrs.  Steer- 
forth  lived,  but  quite  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  town.  When  I  had  made  this 
discovery,  I  went  back,  in  an  attraction  I  could  not  resist,  to  a  lane  by  Mrs.  Steerforth's, 
and  looked  over  the  corner  of  the  garden  wall.  His  room  was  shut  up  close.  The 
conservatory  doors  were  standing  open,  and  Rosa  Dartle  was  walking,  bareheaded, 
with  a  quick  impetuous  step,  up  and  down  a  gravel-walk  on  one  side  of  the  lawn. 
She  gave  me  the  idea  of  some  fierce  thing,  that  was  dragging  the  length  of  its  chain  to 
and  fro  upon  a  beaten  track,  and  wearing  its  heart  out. 

I  came  softly  away  from  my  place  of  observation,  and  avoiding  that  part  of  the 
neighbourhood,  and  wishing  I  had  not  gone  near  it,  strolled  about  until  it  was  ten 
o'clock.  The  church  with  the  slender  spire,  that  stands  on  the  top  of  the  hill  now, 
was  not  there  then  to  tell  me  the  time.  An  old  red-brick  mansion,  used  as  a  school, 
was  in  its  place  ;  and  a  fine  old  house  it  must  have  been  to  go  to  school  at,  as  I 
recollect  it. 

When  I  approached  the  Doctor's  cottage — a  pretty  old  place,  on  which  he  seemed 
to  have  expended  some  money,  if  I  might  judge  from  the  embellishments  and  repairs 
that  had  the  look  of  being  just  completed — I  saw  him  walking  in  the  garden  at  the 
side,  gaiters  and  all,  as  if  he  had  never  left  off  walking  since  the  days  of  my  pupilage. 
He  had  his  old  companions  about  him,  too  ;  for  there  were  plenty  of  high  trees  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  two  or  three  rooks  were  on  the  grass,  looking  after  him,  as  if  they 
had  been  written  to  about  him  by  the  Canterbury  rooks,  and  were  observing  him 
closely  in  consequence. 

Knowing  the  utter  hopelessness  of  attracting  his  attention  from  that  distance, 
I  made  bold  to  open  the  gate,  and  walk  after  him,  so  as  to  meet  him  when  he  should 
turn  round.  When  he  did,  and  came  towards  me,  he  looked  at  me  thoughtfully  for 
a  few  moments,  evidently  without  thinking  about  me  at  all ;  and  then  his  benevolent 
face  expressed  extraordinary  pleasure,  and  he  took  me  by  both  hands. 

'  Why,  my  dear  Copperfield,'  said  the  doctor  ;    '  you  are  a  man  !     How  do  you 


338  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

do  !  I  am  delighted  to  see  you.  My  dear  Copperfield,  how  very  much  you  have 
improved  !     You  are  quite — yes — dear  me  !  ' 

I  hoped  he  was  well,  and  Mrs.  Strong  too. 

'  Oh  dear,  yes  !  '  said  the  Doctor  ;  '  Annie  's  quite  well,  and  she  '11  be  delighted 
to  see  you.  You  were  always  her  favourite.  She  said  so,  last  night,  when  I  showed 
her  your  letter.     And — yes,  to  be  sure — you  recollect  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  Copperfield  ?  ' 

'  Perfectly,  sir.' 

'  Of  course,'  said  the  Doctor.     '  To  be  sure.     He  's  pretty  well,  too.' 

'  Has  he  come  home,  sir  ?  '  I  inquired. 

'  From  India  ?  '  said  the  Doctor.  '  Yes.  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  couldn't  bear  the 
climate,  my  dear.     Mrs.  Markleham — you  have  not  forgotten  Mrs.  Markleham  ?  ' 

Forgotten  the  Old  Soldier  !     And  in  that  short  time  ! 

'  Mrs.  Markleham,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  was  quite  vexed  about  him,  poor  thing  ; 
so  we  have  got  him  at  home  again  ;  and  we  have  bought  him  a  little  Patent  place, 
which  agrees  with  him  much  better.' 

I  knew  enough  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  to  suspect  from  this  account  that  it  was  a  place 
where  there  was  not  much  to  do,  and  which  was  pretty  well  paid.  The  Doctor,  walking 
up  and  down  with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  his  kind  face  turned  encouragingly 
to  mine,  went  on — 

'  Now,  my  dear  Copperfield,  in  reference  to  this  proposal  of  yours.  It 's  very 
gratifying  and  agreeable  to  me,  I  am  sure  ;  but  don't  you  think  you  could  do  better  ? 
You  achieved  distinction,  you  know,  when  you  were  with  us.  You  are  qualified  for 
many  good  things.  You  have  laid  a  foundation  that  any  edifice  may  be  raised  upon  ; 
and  is  it  not  a  pity  that  you  should  devote  the  spring-time  of  your  life  to  such  a  poor 
pursuit  as  I  can  offer  ?  ' 

I  became  very  glowing  again,  and,  expressing  myself  in  arhapsodical  style,  I 
am  afraid,  urged  my  request  strongly  :  reminding  the  Doctor  that  I  had  already  a 
profession. 

'  Well,  well,'  returned  the  Doctor,  '  that  's  true.  Certainly,  your  having  a  pro- 
fession, and  being  actually  engaged  in  studying  it,  makes  a  difference.  But,  my  good 
young  friend,  what 's  seventy  pounds  a  year  ?  ' 

'  It  doubles  our  income.  Doctor  Strong,'  said  I. 

'  Dear  me  ! '  replied  the  Doctor.  '  To  think  of  that  !  Not  that  I  mean  to  say 
it 's  rigidly  limited  to  seventy  pounds  a  year,  because  I  have  always  contemplated 
making  any  young  friend  I  might  thus  employ,  a  present  too.  Undoubtedly,'  said 
the  Doctor,  still  walking  me  up  and  down  with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  '  I  have 
always  taken  an  annual  present  into  account.' 

'  My  dear  tutor,'  said  I  (now,  really,  without  any  nonsense),  '  to  whom  I  owe 
more  obligations  already  than  I  can  ever  acknowledge ' 

'  No,  no,'  interposed  the  Doctor.     '  Pardon  me  ! ' 

'  If  you  will  take  such  time  as  I  have,  and  that  is  my  mornings  and  evenings,  and 
can  think  it  worth  seventy  pounds  a  year,  you  will  do  me  such  a  service  as  I  cannot 
express.' 

'  Dear  me  !  '  said  the  Doctor,  innocently.  '  To  think  that  so  little  should  go 
for  so  much  !  Dear,  dear  !  And  when  you  can  do  better,  you  will  ?  On  your  word, 
now  ?  '  said  the  Doctor, — which  he  had  always  made  a  very  grave  appeal  to  the 
honour  of  us  boys. 

'  On  my  word,  sir  !  '   I  returned,  answering  in  our  old  school  manner. 


ENTHUSIASM  339 

'  Then  be  it  so,'  said  the  Doctor,  clapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  still  keeping 
his  hand  there,  as  \vc  still  walked  ii[)  and  down. 

'  And  I  shall  be  twenty  times  haj)pier,  sir,'  said  I,  with  a  little — I  hope  innocent — 
flattery,  '  if  my  employment  is  to  be  on  the  Dictionary.' 

The  Doctor  stopped,  smilingly  clapped  nie  on  the  shoulder  again,  and  exclaimed, 
with  a  triumph  most  delightful  to  behold,  as  if  I  had  penetrated  to  the  profoundest 
depths  of  mortal  sagacity,  '  My  dear  young  friend,  you  have  hit  it.  It  is  the 
Dictionary  1 ' 

How  could  it  be  anything  else  ?  His  pockets  were  as  full  of  it  as  his  head.  It 
was  sticking  out  of  him  in  all  directions.  He  told  me  that  since  his  retirement  from 
scholastic  life,  he  had  been  advancing  with  it  wonderfully  ;  and  that  nothing  could 
suit  him  better  than  the  proposed  arrangements  for  morning  and  evening  work,  as  it 
was  his  custom  to  walk  about  in  the  day-time  with  his  considering  cap  on.  His  papers 
were  in  a  little  confusion,  in  consequence  of  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  having  lately  proffered 
his  occasional  services  as  an  amanuensis,  and  not  being  accustomed  to  that  occupation  ; 
but  we  should  soon  put  right  what  was  amiss,  and  go  on  swimmingly.  Afterwards, 
when  we  were  fairly  at  our  work,  I  found  Mr.  Jack  Maldon's  efforts  more  troublesome 
to  me  than  I  had  expected,  as  he  had  not  confined  himself  to  making  numerous 
mistakes,  but  had  sketched  so  many  soldiers,  and  ladies'  heads,  over  the  Doctor's 
manuscript,  that  I  often  became  involved  in  labyrinths  of  obscurity. 

The  Doctor  was  quite  happy  in  the  prospect  of  our  going  to  work  together  on 
that  wonderful  performance,  and  we  settled  to  begin  next  morning  at  seven  o'clock. 
We  were  to  work  two  hours  every  morning,  and  two  or  three  hours  every  night,  except 
on  Saturdays,  when  I  was  to  rest.  On  Sundays,  of  course,  I  was  to  rest  also,  and  I 
considered  these  very  easy  terms. 

Our  plans  being  thus  arranged  to  our  mutual  satisfaction,  the  Doctor  took  me 
into  the  house  to  present  me  to  Mrs.  Strong,  whom  we  found  in  the  Doctor's  new 
study,  dusting  his  books, — a  freedom  which  he  never  permitted  anybody  else  to  take 
with  those  sacred  favourites. 

They  had  postponed  their  breakfast  on  my  account,  and  we  sat  down  to  table 
together.  We  had  not  been  seated  long,  when  I  saw  an  approaching  arrival  in  Mrs. 
Strong's  face,  before  I  heard  any  sound  of  it.  A  gentleman  on  horseback  came  to 
the  gate,  and  leading  his  horse  into  the  little  court,  with  the  bridle  over  his  arm,  as  if 
he  were  quite  at  home,  tied  him  to  a  ring  in  the  empty  coach-house  wall,  and  came 
into  the  breakfast  parlour,  whip  in  hand.  It  was  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  ;  and  Mr.  Jack 
Maldon  was  not  at  all  improved  by  India,  I  thought.  I  was  in  a  state  of  ferocious 
virtue,  however,  as  to  young  men  who  were  not  cutting  down  the  trees  in  the  forest 
of  difficulty  ;   and  my  impression  must  be  received  with  due  allowance. 

'  Mr.  Jack  !  '    said  the  Doctor.     '  Copperfield  !  ' 

Mr.  Jack  Maldon  shook  hands  with  me  ;  but  not  very  warmly,  I  believed  ;  and 
with  an  air  of  languid  patronage,  at  which  I  secretly  took  great  umbrage.  But  his 
languor  altogether  was  quite  a  wonderful  sight  ;  except  when  he  addressed  himself 
to  his  cousin  Annie. 

'  Have  you  breakfasted  this  morning,  Mr.  Jack  ?  '   said  the  Doctor. 

'  I  hardly  ever  take  breakfast,  sir,'  he  replied,  witii  his  head  thrown  back  in  an 
easy-chair.     '  I  find  it  bores  me.' 

'  Is  there  any  news  to-day  ?  '    iiuiuired  the  Doctor. 

'  Nothing  at  all,  sir,'  replied  Mr.  Maldon.     '  There  's  an  account  about  the  people 


340  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

being  hungry  and  discontented  down  in  the  North,  but  they  are  always  being  hungry 
and  discontented  somewhere.' 

The  Doctor  looked  grave,  and  said,  as  though  he  wished  to  change  the  subject, 
'  Then  there  's  no  news  at  all ;   and  no  news,  they  say,  is  good  news.' 

'  There  's  a  long  statement  in  the  papers,  sir,  about  a  murder,'  observed  Mr. 
Maldon.     '  But  somebody  's  always  being  murdered,  and  I  didn't  read  it.' 

A  display  of  indifference  to  all  the  actions  and  passions  of  mankind  was  not 
supposed  to  be  such  a  distinguished  quality  at  that  time,  I  think,  as  I  have  observed 
it  to  be  considered  since.  I  have  known  it  very  fashionable  indeed.  I  have  seen  it 
displayed  with  such  success,  that  I  have  encountered  some  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  might  as  well  have  been  born  caterpillars.  Perhaps  it  impressed  me  the  more 
then,  because  it  was  new  to  me,  but  it  certainly  did  not  tend  to  exalt  my  opinion  of, 
or  to  strengthen  my  confidence  in,  Mr.  Jack  Maldon. 

'  I  came  out  to  inquire  whether  Annie  would  like  to  go  to  the  opera  to-night,' 
said  Mr.  Maldon,  turning  to  her.  '  It 's  the  last  good  night  there  will  be,  this  season  ; 
and  there  's  a  singer  there,  whom  she  really  ought  to  hear.  She  is  perfectly  exquisite. 
Besides  which,  she  is  so  charmingly  ugly,'  relapsing  into  languor. 

The  Doctor,  ever  pleased  with  what  was  likely  to  please  his  young  wife,  turned 
to  her  and  said — 

'  You  must  go,  Annie.     You  must  go.' 

'  I  would  rather  not,'  she  said  to  the  Doctor.  '  I  prefer  to  remain  at  home.  I 
would  much  rather  remain  at  home.' 

Without  looking  at  her  cousin,  she  then  addressed  me,  and  asked  me  about  Agnes, 
and  whether  she  should  see  her,  and  whether  she  was  not  likely  to  come  that  day  ; 
and  was  so  much  disturbed,  that  I  wondered  how  even  the  Doctor,  buttering  his 
toast,  could  be  blind  to  what  was  so  obvious. 

But  he  saw  nothing.  He  told  her,  good-naturedly,  that  she  was  young  and 
ought  to  be  amused  and  entertained,  and  must  not  allow  herself  to  be  made  dull  by 
a  dull  old  fellow.  Moreover,  he  said,  he  wanted  to  hear  her  sing  all  the  new  singer's 
songs  to  him  ;  and  how  could  she  do  that  well,  unless  she  went  ?  So  the  Doctor 
persisted  in  making  the  engagement  for  her,  and  Mr.  Jack  Maldon  was  to  come  back 
to  dinner.  This  concluded,  he  went  to  his  Patent  place,  I  suppose  ;  but  at  all  events 
went  away  on  his  horse,  looking  very  idle. 

I  was  curious  to  find  out  next  morning,  whether  she  had  been.  She  had  not, 
but  had  sent  into  London  to  put  her  cousin  off ;  and  had  gone  out  in  the  afternoon  to 
see  Agnes,  and  had  prevailed  upon  the  Doctor  to  go  with  her  ;  and  they  had  walked 
home  by  the  fields,  the  Doctor  told  me,  the  evening  being  delightful.  I  wondered 
then,  whether  she  would  have  gone  if  Agnes  had  not  been  in  town,  and  whether  Agnes 
had  some  good  influence  over  her  too  ! 

She  did  not  look  very  happy,  I  thought,  but  it  was  a  good  face,  or  a  very  false 
one.  I  often  glanced  at  it,  for  she  sat  in  the  window  all  the  time  we  were  at  work  ; 
and  made  our  breakfast,  which  we  took  by  snatches  as  we  were  employed.  When  I 
left  at  nine  o'clock,  she  was  kneeling  on  the  ground  at  the  Doctor's  feet,  putting  on 
his  shoes  and  gaiters  for  him.  There  was  a  softened  shade  upon  her  face,  thrown 
from  some  green  leaves  overhanging  the  open  window  of  the  low  room  ;  and  I  thought 
all  the  way  to  Doctors'  Commons,  of  the  night  when  I  had  seen  it  looking  at  him  as 
he  read. 

I  was  pretty  busy  now ;   up  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  home  at  nine  or  ten  at 


ENTHUSIASM  841 

night.  But  I  had  infinite  satisfaction  in  being  so  closely  engaged,  and  never  walked 
slowly  on  any  account,  and  felt  enthusiastically  that  the  more  I  tired  myself,  the  more 
I  was  doing  to  deserve  Dora.  I  had  not  revealed  myself  in  my  altered  character  to 
Dora  yet,  because  she  was  coming  to  see  Miss  Mills  in  a  few  days,  and  I  deferred  all  I 
had  to  tell  her  until  then  ;  merely  informing  her  in  my  letters  (all  our  communications 
were  .secretly  forwarded  through  Miss  Mills),  that  I  had  much  to  tell  her.  In  the 
meantime,  I  put  myself  on  a  short  allowance  of  bear's  grease,  wholly  abandoned 
scented  soap  and  lavender  water,  and  sold  off  three  waistcoats  at  a  prodigious 
sacrifice,  as  being  too  luxurious  for  my  stern  career. 

Not  satisfied  with  all  these  proceedings,  but  burning  with  impatience  to  do  some- 
thing more,  I  went  to  see  Traddles,  now  lodging  up  behind  the  paraj)ct  of  a  house 
in  Castle  Street,  Holborn.  Mr.  Dick,  who  had  been  with  me  to  Highgate  twice  already, 
and  had  resumed  his  companionship  with  the  Doctor,  I  took  with  me. 

I  took  Mr.  Dick  with  me,  because,  acutely  sensitive  to  my  aunt's  reverses,  and 
sincerely  believing  that  no  galley-slave  or  convict  worked  as  I  did,  he  had  begun  to 
fret  and  worry  himself  out  of  spirits  and  appetite,  as  having  nothing  useful  to  do. 
In  this  condition,  he  felt  more  incapable  of  finishing  the  Memorial  than  ever  ;  and 
the  harder  he  worked  at  it,  the  oftener  that  unlucky  head  of  King  Charles  the  First 
got  into  it.  Seriously  apprehending  that  his  malady  would  increase,  unless  we  put 
some  innocent  deception  upon  him  and  caused  him  to  believe  that  he  was  useful,  or 
unless  we  could  put  him  in  the  way  of  being  really  useful  (which  would  be  better), 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  if  Traddles  could  help  us.  Before  we  went,  I  wrote  Traddles 
a  full  statement  of  all  that  had  happened,  and  Traddles  wrote  me  back  a  capital  answer, 
expressive  of  his  sympathy  and  friendship. 

We  found  him  hard  at  work  with  his  inkstand  and  papers,  refreshed  by  the  sight 
of  the  flowerpot-stand  and  the  little  round  table  in  a  corner  of  the  small  apartment. 
He  received  us  cordially,  and  made  friends  with  Mr.  Dick  in  a  moment.  Mr.  Dick  pro- 
fessed an  absolute  certainty  of  having  seen  him  before,  and  we  both  said, '  Very  likely.' 

The  first  subject  on  which  I  had  to  consult  Traddles  was  this. — I  had  heard  that 
many  men  distinguished  in  various  pursuits  had  begun  life  by  reporting  the  debates 
in  Parliament.  Traddles  having  mentioned  newspapers  to  me,  as  one  of  his  hopes, 
I  had  put  two  things  together,  and  told  Traddles  in  my  letter  that  I  wished  to  know 
how  I  could  qualify  myself  for  this  pursuit.  Traddles  now  informed  me,  as  the  result 
of  his  inquiries,  that  the  mere  mechanical  acquisition  necessary,  except  in  rare  cases, 
for  thorough  excellence  in  it,  that  is  to  say,  a  perfect  and  entire  command  of  the 
mystery  of  short-hand  writing  and  reading,  was  about  equal  in  difficulty  to  the 
mastery  of  six  languages  ;  and  that  it  might  perhaps  be  attained,  by  dint  of  persever- 
ance, in  the  course  of  a  few  years.  Traddles  reasonably  supposed  that  this  would 
settle  the  business  ;  but  I,  only  feeling  that  here  indeed  were  a  few  tall  trees  to  be 
hewn  down,  immediately  resolved  to  work  my  way  on  to  Dora  through  this  thicket, 
axe  in  hand. 

'  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  my  dear  Traddles  !  '  said  I.  '  I  '11  begin 
to-morrow.' 

Traddles  looked  astonished,  as  he  well  might  ;  but  he  had  no  notion  as  yet  of  my 
rapturous  condition. 

'  I  '11  buy  a  book,'  said  I,  '  with  a  good  scheme  of  this  art  in  it  ;  I  '11  work  at  it 
at  the  Commons,  where  I  haven't  half  enough  to  do  ;  I  '11  take  down  the  speeches  in 
our  court  for  practice — Traddles,  my  dear  fellow,  I  '11  master  it  !  ' 


342  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Dear  me,'  said  Traddles,  opening  his  eyes,  '  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  such  a 
determined  character,  Copperfield  !  ' 

I  don't  know  how  he  should  have  had,  for  it  was  new  enough  to  me.  I  passed  that 
off,  and  brought  Mr.  Dick  on  the  carpet. 

'  You  see,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  wistfully,  '  if  I  could  exert  myself,  Mr.  Traddles — if 
I  could  beat  a  drum — or  blow  anything  !  ' 

Poor  fellow  !  I  have  little  doubt  he  would  have  preferred  such  an  employment 
in  his  heart  to  all  others.  Traddles,  who  would  not  have  smiled  for  the  world, 
replied  composedly — 

'  But  you  are  a  very  good  penman,  sir.     You  told  me  so,  Copperfield  ?  ' 

'  Excellent !  '  said  I.     And  indeed  he  was.     He  wrote  with  extraordinary  neatness. 

'  Don't  you  think,'  said  Traddles,  '  you  could  copy  writings,  sir,  if  I  got  them  for 
you  ?' 

Mr.  Dick  looked  doubtfully  at  me.     '  Eh,  Trotwood  ?  ' 

I  shook  my  head.  Mr.  Dick  shook  his,  and  sighed.  '  Tell  him  about  the 
Memorial,'  said  Mr.  Dick. 

I  explained  to  Traddles  that  there  was  a  difficulty  in  keeping  King  Charles  the 
First  out  of  Mr.  Dick's  manuscripts  ;  Mr.  Dick  in  the  meanwhile  looking  very 
deferentially  and  seriously  at  Traddles,  and  sucking  his  thumb. 

'  But  these  writings,  you  know,  that  I  speak  of,  are  already  drawn  up  and  finished,' 
said  Traddles,  after  a  little  consideration.  '  Mr.  Dick  has  nothing  to  do  with  them. 
Wouldn't  that  make  a  difference,  Copperfield  ?  At  all  events,  wouldn't  it  be  well 
to  try  ?  ' 

This  gave  us  new  hope.  Traddles  and  I  laying  our  heads  together  apart,  while 
Mr.  Dick  anxiously  watched  us  from  his  chair,  we  concocted  a  scheme  in  virtue  of 
which  we  got  him  to  work  next  day,  with  triumphant  success. 

On  a  table  by  the  window  in  Buckingham  Street,  we  set  out  the  work  Traddles 
procured  for  him — which  was  to  make,  I  forget  how  many  copies  of  a  legal  document 
about  some  right  of  way — and  on  another  table  we  spread  the  last  unfinished  original 
of  the  great  Memorial.  Our  instructions  to  Mr.  Dick  were  that  he  should  copy  exactly 
what  he  had  before  him,  without  the  least  departure  from  the  original ;  and  that  when 
he  felt  it  necessary  to  make  the  slightest  allusion  to  King  Charles  the  First,  he  should 
fly  to  the  Memorial.  We  exhorted  him  to  be  resolute  in  this,  and  left  my  aunt  to 
observe  him.  My  aunt  reported  to  us,  afterwards,  that,  at  first,  he  was  like  a  man 
playing  the  kettle-drums,  and  constantly  divided  his  attentions  between  the  two  ; 
but  that,  finding  this  confuse  and  fatigue  him,  and  having  his  copy  there,  plainly  before 
his  eyes,  he  soon  sat  at  it  in  an  orderly  business-like  manner,  and  pastponed  the 
Memorial  to  a  more  convenient  time.  In  a  word,  although  we  took  great  care  that  he 
should  have  no  more  to  do  than  was  good  for  him,  and  although  he  did  not  begin 
with  the  beginning  of  a  week,  he  earned  by  the  following  Saturday  night  ten  shillings 
and  ninepence  ;  and  never,  while  I  live,  shall  I  forget  his  going  about  to  all  the  shops 
in  the  neighbourhood  to  change  this  treasure  into  sixpences,  or  his  bringing  them  to 
my  aunt  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  heart  upon  a  waiter,  with  tears  of  joy  and  pride 
in  his  eyes.  He  was  like  one  under  the  propitious  influence  of  a  charm,  from  the 
moment  of  his  being  usefully  employed  ;  and  if  there  were  a  happy  man  in  the  world, 
that  Saturday  night,  it  was  the  grateful  creature  who  thought  my  aunt  the  most 
wonderful  woman  in  existence,  and  me  the  most  wonderful  young  man. 

'  No  starving  now,  Trotwood,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  shaking  hands  with  me  in  a  corner. 


ENTHUSIASM  343 

'  I  'II  provide  for  her,  sir  !  '  and  he  flourished  his  ten  fingers  in  the  air,  as  if  they  were 
ten  banks. 

I  hardly  know  which  was  the  better  pleased,  Traddles  or  I.  It  really,'  said 
Traddles,  suddenly,  taking  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket,  and  giving  it  to  me,  '  put  Mr. 
Micawber  (juite  out  of  my  head  !  ' 

The  letter  (Mr.  Micawber  never  missed  any  possible  opportunity  of  writing  a 
letter)  was  addressed  to  me,  '  By  the  kindness  of  T.  Traddles,  Esquire,  of  the  Inner 
Temple.'     It  ran  thus — 

'  My  dear  Copperfield, 

'  You  may  possibly  not  be  unprepared  to  receive  the  intimation  that  some- 
thing has  turned  up.  I  may  have  mentioned  to  you  on  a  former  occasion  that  I  was 
in  expectation  of  such  an  event. 

'  I  am  about  to  establish  myself  in  one  of  the  provincial  towns  of  our  favoured 
island  (where  the  society  may  be  described  as  a  happy  admixture  of  the  agricultural 
and  the  clerical),  in  immediate  connection  with  one  of  the  learned  professions.  Mrs. 
Micawber  and  our  offspring  will  accompany  me.  Our  ashes,  at  a  future  period,  will 
probably  be  found  commingled  in  the  cemetery  attached  to  a  venerable  pile,  for  which 
the  spot  to  which  I  refer,  has  acquired  a  reputation,  shall  I  say  from  China  to  Peru  ? 
'  In  bidding  adieu  to  the  modern  Babylon,  where  we  have  undergone  many 
vicissitudes,  I  trust  not  ignobly,  Mrs.  Micawber  and  myself  cannot  disguise  from 
our  minds  that  we  part,  it  may  be  for  years  and  it  may  be  for  ever,  with  an 
individual  linked  by  strong  associations  to  the  altar  of  our  domestic  life.  If,  on 
the  eve  of  such  a  departure,  you  will  accompany  our  mutual  friend,  Mr.  Thomas 
Traddles,  to  our  present  abode,  and  there  reciprocate  the  wishes  natural  to  the 
occasion,  you  will  confer  a  boon 

'On 
'One 
'Who 
'Is 

'  Ever  yours, 
'  WiLKiNs  Micawber.' 

I  was  glad  to  find  that  Mr.  Micawber  had  got  rid  of  his  dust  and  ashes,  and  that 
something  really  had  turned  up  at  last.  Learning  from  Traddles  that  the  invitation 
referred  to  the  evening  then  wearing  away,  I  expressed  my  readiness  to  do  honour  to 
it ;  and  we  went  off  together  to  the  lodging  which  Mr.  Micawber  occupied  as  ^Vlr. 
Mortimer,  and  which  was  situated  near  the  top  of  the  Gray's  Inn  Road. 

The  resources  of  this  lodging  were  so  limited,  that  we  found  the  twins,  now  some 
eight  or  nine  years  old,  reposing  in  a  turn-up  bedstead  in  the  family  sitting-room, 
where  Mr.  Micawber  had  prepared,  in  a  washhand-stand  jug,  what  he  called  a  '  brew  ' 
of  the  agreeable  beverage  for  which  he  was  famous.  I  had  the  pleasure,  on  this 
occasion,  of  renewing  the  acquaintance  of  Master  Micawber,  whom  I  found  a  promising 
boy  of  about  twelve  or  thirteen,  very  subject  to  that  restlessness  of  limb  which  is  not 
an  unfrequent  phenomenon  in  youths  of  his  age.  I  also  became  once  more  known 
to  his  sister.  Miss  Micawber,  in  whom,  as  Mr.  Micawber  told  us,  '  her  mother  renewed 
her  youth,  like  the  phoenix.' 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  yourself  and  Mr.  Traddles  find  us 


344  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

on  the  brink  of  migration,  and  will  excuse  any  little  discomforts  incidental  to  that 
position.' 

Glancing  round  as  I  made  a  suitable  reply,  I  observed  that  the  family  effects  were 
already  packed,  and  that  the  amount  of  luggage  was  by  no  means  overwhelming. 
I  congratulated  Mrs.  Micawber  on  the  approaching  change. 

'  My  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  of  your  friendly  interest  in  all 
our  affairs,  I  am  well  assured.  My  family  may  consider  it  banishment,  if  they  please  ; 
but  I  am  a  wife  and  mother,  and  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.' 

Traddles,  appealed  to,  by  Mrs.  Micawber's  eye,  feelingly  acquiesced. 

'  That,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  that,  at  least,  is  my  view,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield 
and  Mr.  Traddles,  of  the  obligation  which  I  took  upon  myself  when  I  repeated  the 
irrevocable  words,  "  I,  Emma,  take  thee,  Wilkins."  I  read  the  service  over  with  a 
flat-candle  on  the  previous  night,  and  the  conclusion  I  derived  from  it  was,  that  I 
never  could  desert  Mr.  Micawber.  And,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  though  it  is  possible 
I  may  be  mistaken  in  my  view  of  the  ceremony,  I  never  will  !  ' 

'  My  dear,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  a  little  impatiently,  '  I  am  not  conscious  that  you 
are  expected  to  do  anything  of  the  sort.' 

'  I  am  aware,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  pursued  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  that  I  am  now 
about  to  cast  my  lot  among  strangers  ;  and  I  am  also  aware  that  the  various  members 
of  my  family,  to  whom  Mr.  Micawber  has  written  in  the  most  gentlemanly  terms, 
announcing  that  fact,  have  not  taken  the  least  notice  of  Mr.  Micawber's  communication. 
Indeed  I  may  be  superstitious,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  but  it  appears  to  me  that  Mr. 
Micawber  is  destined  never  to  receive  any  answers  whatever  to  the  great  majority  of 
the  communications  he  writes.  I  may  augur  from  the  silence  of  my  family,  that  they 
object  to  the  resolution  I  have  taken  ;  but  I  should  not  allow  myself  to  be  swerved 
from  the  path  of  duty,  Mr.  Copperfield,  even  by  my  papa  and  mamma,  were  they  still 
living.' 

I  expressed  my  opinion  that  this  was  going  in  the  right  direction. 

'  It  may  be  a  sacrifice,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  to  immure  one's-self  in  a  cathedral 
town  ;  but  surely,  Mr.  Copperfield,  if  it  is  a  sacrifice  in  me,  it  is  much  more  a  sacrifice 
in  a  man  of  Mr.  Micawber's  abilities.' 

'  Oh  !     You  are  going  to  a  cathedral  town  ?  '   said  I. 

Mr.  Micawber,  who  had  been  helping  us  all,  out  of  the  washhand-stand  jug, 
replied — 

'  To  Canterbury.  In  fact,  my  dear  Copperfield,  I  have  entered  into  arrangements, 
by  virtue  of  which  I  stand  pledged  and  contracted  to  our  friend,  Heep,  to  assist  and 
serve  him  in  the  capacity  of — and  to  be — his  confidential  clerk.' 

I  stared  at  Mr.  Micawber,  who  greatly  enjoyed  my  surprise. 

'  I  am  bound  to  state  to  you,'  he  said,  with  an  official  air,  '  that  the  business 
habits,  and  the  prudent  suggestions,  of  Mrs.  Micawber,  have  in  a  great  measure  con- 
duced to  this  result.  The  gauntlet,  to  which  Mrs.  Micawber  referred  upon  a  former 
occasion,  being  thrown  down  in  the  form  of  an  advertisement,  was  taken  up  by  friend 
Heep,  and  led  to  a  mutual  recognition.  Of  my  friend  Heep,'  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
'  who  is  a  man  of  remarkable  shrewdness,  I  desire  to  speak  with  all  possible  respect. 
My  friend  Heep  has  not  fixed  the  positive  remuneration  at  too  high  a  figure,  but  he 
has  made  a  great  deal,  in  the  way  of  extrication  from  the  pressure  of  pecuniary  diffi- 
culties, contingent  on  the  value  of  my  services  ;  and  on  the  value  of  those  services, 
I  pin  my  faith.     Such  address  and  intelligence  as  I  chance  to  possess,'  said  Mr. 


ENTIIUSrASM  845 

Micawber,  boastfully  disparaging  himself,  with  the  old  genteel  air,  '  will  be  devoted 
to  my  friend  Ileep's  service.  I  have  already  some  acquaintance  with  the  law — as 
a  defendant  on  civil  process — and  I  shall  iiiinicdiatcly  apply  myself  to  the  Com- 
mentaries of  one  of  the  most  eminent  and  remarkable  of  our  English  jurists.  I 
believe  it  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  I  allude  to  Mr.  Justice  Blackstoiie.' 

These  observations,  and  indeed  the  greater  part  of  the  observations  made  that 
evening,  were  interrupted  by  Mrs.  Micawber's  discovering  that  Master  Micawber  was 
sitting  on  his  boots,  or  holding  his  head  on  with  both  arms  as  if  he  felt  it  loose,  or 
accidentally  kicking  Traddlcs  under  the  table,  or  shuflling  his  feet  over  one  another, 
or  producing  them  at  distances  from  himself  apparently  outrageous  to  nature,  or 
lying  sideways  with  his  hair  among  the  wine-glasses,  or  developing  his  restlessness  of 
limb  in  some  other  form  incompatible  with  the  general  interests  of  society  ;  and  by 
Master  Micawber's  receiving  those  discoveries  in  a  resentful  spirit.  I  sat  all  the  while, 
amazed  by  Mr.  Micawber's  disclosure,  and  wondering  what  it  meant ;  until  Mrs. 
Micawber  resumed  the  thread  of  the  discourse,  and  claimed  my  attention. 

'  What  I  particularly  request  Mr.  Micawber  to  be  careful  of,  is,'  said  Mrs. 
Micawber,  '  that  he  does  not,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  in  applying  himself  to  this 
subordinate  branch  of  the  law,  place  it  out  of  his  power  to  rise,  ultimately,  to  the  top 
of  the  tree.  I  am  convinced  that  Mr.  Micawber,  giving  his  mind  to  a  i)rofession  so 
adapted  to  his  fertile  resources,  and  his  flow  of  language,  must  distinguish  himself. 
Now,  for  example,  Mr.  Traddles,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  assuming  a  profound  air,  '  a 
judge,  or  even  say  a  chancellor.  Does  an  individual  place  himself  beyond  the 
pale  of  those  preferments  by  entering  on  such  an  office  as  Mr.  Micawber  has 
accepted  ?  ' 

'  My  dear,'  observed  Mr.  >ricawber — ^but  glancing  inquisitively  at  Traddles,  too  ; 
'  we  have  time  enough  before  us,  for  the  consideration  of  those  questions.' 

'  Micawber,'  she  returned,  '  no  !  Your  mistake  in  life  is,  that  you  do  not  look 
forward  far  enough.  You  are  bound,  in  justice  to  your  family,  if  not  to  yourself,  to 
take  in  at  a  comprehensive  glance  the  extremest  point  in  the  horizon  to  which  your 
abilities  may  lead  you.' 

Mr.  Micawber  coughed,  and  drank  his  punch  with  an  air  of  exceeding  satisfaction 
— still  glancing  at  Traddles,  as  if  he  desired  to  have  his  opinion. 

'  Why,  the  plain  state  of  the  case,  Mrs.  Micawber,'  said  Traddles,  mildly  breaking 
the  truth  to  her,  '  I  mean  the  real  prosaic  fact,  you  know ' 

'  Just  so,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  my  dear  Mr.  Traddles,  I  wish  to  be  as  prosaic 
and  literal  as  possible  on  a  subject  of  so  much  importance.' 

'  — Is,'  said  Traddles,  '  that  this  branch  of  the  law,  even  if  Mr.  Micawber  were  a 
regular  solicitor ' 

'  Exactly  so,'  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  ('  Wilkins,  you  are  squinting,  and  will 
not  be  able  to  get  your  eyes  back.') 

'  — Has  nothing,'  pursued  Traddles,  '  to  do  with  that.  Only  a  barrister  is  eligible 
for  such  preferments  ;  and  Mr.  Micawber  could  not  be  a  barrister,  without  being 
entered  at  an  inn  of  court  as  a  student,  for  five  years.' 

'  Do  I  follow  you  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  her  most  affable  air  of  business. 
'  Do  I  understand,  my  dear  Mr.  Traddles,  that,  at  the  expiration  of  that  period,  Mr. 
Micawber  would  be  eligible  as  a  judge  or  chancellor  ?  ' 

'  He  would  be  eligible,'  returned  Traddles,  with  a  strong  emphasis  on  that 
word. 


346  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  That  is  quite  sufficient.  If  such  is  the  case, 
and  Mr.  Micawber  forfeits  no  privilege  by  entering  on  these  duties,  my  anxiety  is  set 
at  rest.  I  speak,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  as  a  female,  necessarily  ;  but  I  have  always 
been  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Micawber  possesses  what  I  have  heard  my  papa  call,  when 
I  lived  at  home,  the  judicial  mind  ;  and  I  hope  Mr.  Micawber  is  now  entering  on  a 
field  where  that  mind  will  develop  itself,  and  take  a  conmianding  station.' 

I  quite  believe  that  Mr.  Micawber  saw  himself,  in  his  judicial  mind's  eye,  on  the 
woolsack.  He  passed  his  hand  complacently  over  his  bald  head,  and  said  with 
ostentatious  resignation — - 

'  My  dear,  we  will  not  anticipate  the  decrees  of  fortune.  If  I  am  reserved  to  wear 
a  wig,  I  am  at  least  prepared,  eternally,'  in  allusion  to  his  baldness,  '  for  that  dis- 
tinction. I  do  not,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  regret  my  hair,  and  I  may  have  been  deprived 
of  it  for  a  specific  purpose.  I  cannot  say.  It  is  my  intention,  my  dear  Copperfield, 
to  educate  my  son  for  the  Church  ;  I  will  not  deny  that  I  should  be  happy,  on  his 
account,  to  attain  to  eminence.' 

'  For  the  Church  ?  '   said  I,  still  pondering,  between  whiles,  on  Uriah  Heep. 

'  Yes,'  said  Mr.  Micawber.  '  He  has  a  remarkable  head-voice,  and  will  commence 
as  a  chorister.  Our  residence  at  Canterbury,  and  our  local  connection,  will,  no  doubt, 
enable  him  to  take  advantage  of  any  vacancy  that  may  arise  in  the  cathedral 
corps.' 

On  looking  at  Master  Micawber  again,  I  saw  that  he  had  a  certain  expression  of 
face,  as  if  his  voice  were  behind  his  eyebrows  ;  where  it  presently  appeared  to  be,  on 
his  singing  us  (as  an  alternative  between  that  and  bed),  '  The  Wood-Pecker  tapping.' 
After  many  compliments  on  this  performance,  we  fell  into  some  general  conversation  ; 
and  as  I  was  too  full  of  my  desperate  intentions  to  keep  my  altered  circumstances 
to  myself,  I  made  them  known  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber.  I  cannot  express  how 
extremely  delighted  they  both  were,  by  the  idea  of  my  aunt's  being  in  difficulties  ; 
and  how  comfortable  and  friendly  it  made  them. 

When  we  were  nearly  come  to  the  last  round  of  the  punch,  I  addressed  myself 
to  Traddles,  and  reminded  him  that  we  must  not  separate,  without  wishing  our  friends 
health,  happiness,  and  success  in  their  new  career.  I  begged  Mr.  Micawber  to  fill  us 
bumpers,  and  proposed  the  toast  in  due  form  :  shaking  hands  with  him  across  the 
table,  and  kissing  Mrs.  Micawber,  to  commemorate  that  eventful  occasion.  Traddles 
imitated  me  in  the  first  particular,  but  did  not  consider  himself  a  sufficiently  old  friend 
to  venture  on  the  second. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  rising  with  one  of  his  thumbs  in 
each  of  his  waistcoat-pockets,  '  the  companion  of  my  youth  :  if  I  may  be  allowed  the 
expression — and  my  esteemed  friend  Traddles  :  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  call  him 
so — will  allow  me,  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Micawber,  myself,  and  our  offspring,  to  thank 
them  in  the  warmest  and  most  uncompromising  terms  for  their  good  wishes.  It  may 
be  expected  that  on  the  eve  of  a  migration  which  will  consign  us  to  a  perfectly  new 
existence,'  Mr.  Micawber  spoke  as  if  they  were  going  five  hundred  thousand  miles, 
I  should  offer  a  few  valedictory  remarks  to  two  such  friends  as  I  see  before  me.  But 
all  that  I  have  to  say  in  this  way  I  have  said.  Whatever  station  in  society  I  may 
attain,  through  the  medium  of  the  learned  profession  of  which  I  am  about  to  become 
an  unworthy  member,  I  shall  endeavour  not  to  disgrace,  and  Mrs.  Micawber  will  be 
safe  to  adorn.  Under  the  temporary  pressure  of  pecuniary  liabilities,  contracted 
with  a  view  to  their  immediate  liquidation,  but  remaining  unliquidated  through  a 


ENTTIUSTASM  347 

combination  of  circumstances,  I  have  been  under  the  necessity  of  assuming  a  garb 
from  which  my  natural  instincts  recoil — I  allude  tf)  spectacles — and  possessing  myself 
of  a  cognomen,  to  which  I  can  establish  no  legit  irnute  i)rctcnsions.  All  I  have  to  say 
on  that  score  is,  that  the  cloud  has  passed  from  the  dreary  scene,  and  the  God  of  Day 
is  once  more  high  upon  the  mountain  tops.  On  Monday  next,  on  the  arrival  of  the 
four  o'clock  afternoon  coach  at  Canterbury,  my  foot  will  be  on  my  native  heath — my 
name,  Micawber  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  resumed  his  seat  on  the  close  of  these  remarks,  and  drank  two 
glasses  of  punch  in  grave  succession.     He  then  said  with  much  solemnity — 

'  One  thing  more  I  have  to  do,  before  this  separation  is  complete,  and  that  is 
to  perform  an  act  of  justice.  My  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  has,  on  two  several 
occasions,  "  put  his  name,"  if  I  may  use  a  common  expression,  to  bills  of  exchange 
for  my  accommodation.  On  the  first  occasion  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  was  left^let  me 
say,  in  short,  in  the  lurch.  The  fulfilment  of  the  second  has  not  yet  arrived.  The 
amount  of  the  first  obligation,'  here  Mr.  Micawber  carefully  referred  to  papers,  '  was, 
I  believe,  twenty-three,  four,  nine  and  a  half  ;  of  the  second,  according  to  my  entry 
of  that  transaction,  eighteen,  six,  two.  These  sums,  united,  make  a  total,  if  my 
calculation  is  correct,  amounting  to  forty-one,  ten,  eleven  and  a  half.  My  friend 
Copperfield  will  perhaps  do  me  the  favour  to  check  that  total  ?  ' 

I  did  so  and  found  it  correct. 

'  To  leave  this  metropolis,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  and  my  friend  Mr.  Thomas 
Traddles,  without  acquitting  myself  of  the  pecuniary  part  of  this  obligation,  would 
weigh  upon  my  mind  to  an  insupportable  extent.  I  have,  therefore,  prepared  for  my 
friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  and  I  now  hold  in  my  hand,  a  document  which  accom- 
plishes the  desired  object.  I  beg  to  hand  to  my  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  my 
I.  O.  U.  for  forty-one,  ten,  eleven  and  a  half,  and  I  am  happy  to  recover  my  moral 
dignity,  and  to  know  that  I  can  once  more  walk  erect  before  my  fellow-man  !  ' 

With  this  introduction  (which  greatly  affected  him),  Mr.  INIicawber  placed  his 
I.  O.  U.  in  the  hands  of  Traddles,  and  said  he  wished  him  well  in  every  relation  of  life. 
I  am  persuaded,  not  only  that  this  was  quite  the  same  to  Mr.  Micawber  as  paying  the 
money,  but  that  Traddles  himself  hardly  knew  the  difference  until  he  had  had  time  to 
think  about  it. 

Mr.  Micawber  walked  so  erect  before  his  fellow-man,  on  the  strength  of  this 
virtuous  action,  that  his  chest  looked  half  as  broad  again  when  he  lighted  us  down- 
stairs. We  parted  with  great  heartiness  on  both  sides  ;  and  when  I  had  seen  Traddles 
to  his  own  door,  and  was  going  home  alone,  I  thought,  among  the  other  odd  and  con- 
tradictory things  I  mused  upon,  that,  slippery  as  Mr.  Micawber  was,  I  was  probably 
indebted  to  some  compassionate  recollection  he  retained  of  me  as  his  boy-lodger, 
for  never  having  been  asked  by  him  for  money.  I  certainly  should  not  have  had  the 
moral  courage  to  refuse  it ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  knew  that  (to  his  credit  be  it 
written),  quite  as  well  as  I  did. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

A   LITTLE    COLD    WATER 

MY  new  life  had  lasted  for  more  than  a  week,  and  I  was  stronger  than 
ever  in  those  tremendous  practical  resolutions  that  I  felt  the  crisis 
required.  I  continued  to  walk  extremely  fast,  and  to  have  a  general 
idea  that  I  was  getting  on.  I  made  it  a  rule  to  take  as  much  out  of 
myself  as  I  possibly  could,  in  my  way  of  doing  everything  to  which  I  applied  my 
energies.  I  made  a  perfect  victim  of  myself.  I  even  entertained  some  idea  of 
putting  myself  on  a  vegetable-diet,  vaguely  conceiving  that,  in  becoming  a  gramini- 
vorous animal,  I  should  sacrifice  to  Dora. 

As  yet,  little  Dora  was  quite  unconscious  of  my  desperate  firmness,  otherwise 
than  as  my  letters  darkly  shadowed  it  forth.  But,  another  Saturday  came,  and  on 
that  Saturday  evening  she  was  to  be  at  Miss  Mills's  ;  and  when  Mr.  Mills  had  gone 
t©  his  whist-club  (telegraphed  to  me  in  the  street,  by  a  birdcage  in  the  drawing-room 
middle  window),  I  was  to  go  there  to  tea. 

By  this  time,  we  were  quite  settled  down  in  Buckingham  Street,  where  Mr.  Dick 
continued  his  copying  in  a  state  of  absolute  felicity.  My  aunt  had  obtained  a  signal 
victory  over  Mrs.  Crupp,  by  paying  her  off,  throwing  the  first  pitcher  she  planted  on 
the  stairs  out  of  window,  and  protecting  in  person,  up  and  down  the  staircase,  a  super- 
numerary whom  she  engaged  from  the  outer  world.  These  vigorous  measures  struck 
such  terror  to  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  that  she  subsided  into  her  own  kitchen,  under 
the  impression  that  my  aunt  was  mad.  My  aunt  being  supremely  indifferent  to  Mrs. 
Crupp's  opinion  and  everybody  else's,  and  rather  favouring  than  discouraging  the 
idea,  Mrs.  Crupp,  of  late  the  bold,  became  within  a  few  days  so  faint-hearted,  that 
rather  than  encounter  my  aunt  upon  the  staircase,  she  would  endeavour  to  hide  her 
portly  form  behind  doors — -leaving  visible,  however,  a  wide  margin  of  flannel  petti- 
coat— or  would  shrink  into  dark  corners.  This  gave  my  aunt  such  unspeakable 
satisfaction,  that  I  believe  she  took  a  delight  in  prowHng  up  and  down,  with  her 
bonnet  insanely  perched  on  the  top  of  her  head,  at  times  when  Mrs.  Crupp  was  likely 
to  be  in  the  way. 

My  aunt,  being  uncommonly  neat  and  ingenious,  made  so  many  little  improve- 
ments in  our  domestic  arrangements,  that  I  seemed  to  be  richer  instead  of  poorer. 
Among  the  rest,  she  converted  the  pantry  into  a  dressing-room  for  me  ;  and  purchased 
and  embellished  a  bedstead  for  my  occupation,  which  looked  as  like  a  bookcase  in  the 
daytime  as  a  bedstead  could.  I  was  the  object  of  her  constant  solicitude  ;  and  my 
poor  mother  herself  could  not  have  loved  me  better,  or  studied  more  how  to  make 
me  happy. 

Peggotty  had  considered  herself  highly  privileged  in  being  allowed  to  participate 
in  these  labours  ;  and,  although  she  still  retained  something  of  her  old  sentiment  of 
awe  in  reference  to  my  aunt,  had  received  so  many  marks  of  encouragement  and 
confidence,  that  they  were  the  best  friends  possible.  But  the  time  had  now  come 
(I  am  speaking  of  the  Saturday  when  I  was  to  take  tea  at  Miss  Mills's)  when  it  was 
necessary  for  her  to  return  home,  and  enter  on  the  discharge  of  the  duties  she  had 


A  LITTLE  COLD  WATER  349 

undertaken  in  behalf  of  Ham.  '  So  good-bye,  Barkis,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  take  care 
of  yourself  I     I  am  sure  1  never  thought  i  could  be  sorry  to  lose  you  !  ' 

I  took  Peggotty  to  the  coach-oflice  and  saw  her  off.  She  cried  at  parting,  and 
confided  her  brother  to  my  friendship  as  Ham  had  done.  We  had  heard  nothing  of 
him  since  he  went  away,  that  sunny  afternoon. 

'  And  now,  my  own  dear  Davy,'  said  Peggotty,  '  if,  while  you  're  a  prentice,  you 
should  want  any  money  to  spend  ;  or  if,  when  you  're  out  of  your  time,  my  dear,  you 
should  want  any  to  set  you  up  (and  you  must  do  one  or  other,  or  both,  my  darling)  ; 
who  has  such  a  good  right  to  ask  leave  to  lend  it  you,  as  my  sweet  girl's  own  old 
stupid  me  !  ' 

I  was  not  so  savagely  independent  as  to  say  anything  in  reply,  l)ut  that  if  ever  I 
borrowed  money  of  any  one,  I  would  borrow  it  of  her.  Next  to  accepting  a  large 
sum  on  the  spot,  I  believe  this  gave  Peggotty  more  comfort  than  anything  I  could 
have  done. 

'  And,  my  dear  !  '  whispered  Peggotty,  '  tell  the  pretty  little  angel  that  I  should 
so  have  liked  to  see  her,  only  for  a  minute  !  And  tell  her  that  before  she  marries 
my  boy,  I  '11  come  and  make  your  house  so  beautiful  for  you,  if  you  '11  let  me  !  ' 

I  declared  that  nobody  else  should  touch  it ;  and  this  gave  Peggotty  such  delight, 
that  she  went  away  in  good  spirits. 

I  fatigued  myself  as  much  as  I  possibly  could  in  the  Commons  all  day,  by  a 
variety  of  devices,  and  at  the  appointed  time  in  the  evening  repaired  to  Mr.  Mills's 
street.  Mr.  Mills,  who  was  a  terrible  fellow  to  fall  asleep  after  dinner,  had  not  yet 
gone  out,  and  there  was  no  birdcage  in  the  middle  window. 

He  kept  me  waiting  so  long,  that  I  fervently  hoped  the  club  would  fine  him  for 
being  late.  At  last  he  came  out ;  and  then  I  saw  my  own  Dora  hang  up  the  birdcage, 
and  peep  into  the  balcony  to  look  for  me,  and  run  in  again  when  she  saw  I  was  there, 
while  Jip  remained  behind,  to  bark  injuriously  at  an  immense  butcher's  dog  in  the 
street,  who  could  have  taken  him  like  a  pill. 

Dora  came  to  the  drawing-room  door  to  meet  me  ;  and  Jip  came  scrambling  out, 
tumbling  over  his  own  growls,  under  the  impression  that  I  was  a  bandit ;  and  we  all 
three  went  in,  as  happy  and  loving  as  could  be.  I  soon  carried  desolation  into  the 
bosom  of  our  joys — not  that  I  meant  to  do  it,  but  that  I  was  so  full  of  the  subject — 
by  asking  Dora,  without  the  smallest  preparation,  if  she  could  love  a  beggar  ? 

My  pretty,  little,  startled  Dora  !  Her  only  association  with  the  word  was  a 
yellow  face  and  a  nightcap,  or  a  pair  of  crutches,  or  a  wooden  leg,  or  a  dog  with  a 
decanter-stand  in  his  mouth,  or  something  of  that  kind  ;  and  she  stared  at  me  with 
the  most  delightful  wonder. 

'  How  can  you  ask  me  anything  so  foolish  ?  '   pouted  Dora.     '  Love  a  beggar  !  ' 

'  Dora,  my  own  dearest  !  '   said  I.     '  /  am  a  beggar  !  ' 

'  How  can  you  be  such  a  silly  thing,'  replied  Dora,  slapping  my  hand,  '  as  to  sit 
there,  teUing  such  stories  ?     I  '11  make  Jip  bite  you  1  ' 

Her  childish  way  was  the  most  delicious  way  in  the  world  to  me,  but  it  was 
necessary  to  be  explicit,  and  I  solemnly  repeated — 

'  Dora,  my  own  life,  I  am  your  ruined  David  !  ' 

'  I  declare  I  'II  make  Jip  bite  you  !  '  said  Dora,  shaking  her  curls,  '  if  you  are  so 
ridiculous.' 

But  I  looked  so  serious,  that  Dora  left  off  shaking  her  curls,  and  laid  her  trembling 
little  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  first  looked  scared  and  anxious,  then  began  to  cry. 


350  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

That  was  dreadful.  I  fell  upon  my  knees  before  the  sofa,  caressing  her,  and  imploring 
her  not  to  rend  my  heart  ;  but,  for  some  time,  poor  little  Dora  did  nothing  but  exclaim 
Oh  dear  !  Oh  dear  !  And  oh,  she  was  so  frightened  !  And  where  was  Julia  Mills  ? 
And  oh,  take  her  to  Julia  Mills,  and  go  away,  please  !  until  I  was  almost  beside  myself. 

At  last,  after  an  agony  of  supplication  and  protestation,  I  got  Dora  to  look  at 
me,  with  a  horrified  expression  of  face,  which  I  gradually  soothed  until  it  was  only 
loving,  and  her  soft,  pretty  cheek  was  lying  against  mine.  Then  I  told  her,  with 
my  arms  clasped  round  her,  how  I  loved  her,  so  dearly,  and  so  dearly  ;  how  I  felt  it 
right  to  offer  to  release  her  from  her  engagement,  because  now  I  was  poor  ;  how  I 
never  could  bear  it,  or  recover  it,  if  I  lost  her  ;  how  I  had  no  fears  of  poverty,  if  she 
had  none,  my  arm  being  nerved  and  my  heart  inspired  by  her  ;  how  I  was  already 
working  with  a  courage  such  as  none  but  lovers  knew  ;  how  I  had  begun  to  be  practi- 
cal, and  look  into  the  future  ;  how  a  crust  well  earned  was  sweeter  far  than  a  feast 
inherited  ;  and  much  more  to  the  same  purpose,  which  I  delivered  in  a  burst  of 
passionate  eloquence  quite  surprising  to  myself,  though  I  had  been  thinking  about  it, 
day  and  night,  ever  since  my  aunt  had  astonished  me. 

'  Is  your  heart  mine  still,  dear  Dora  ?  '  said  I,  rapturously,  for  I  knew  by  her 
clinging  to  me  that  it  was. 

'  Oh,  yes  !  '   cried  Dora.     '  Oh,  yes,  it 's  all  yours.     Oh,  don't  be  dreadful  !  ' 

/  dreadful  !     To  Dora  ! 

'  Don't  talk  about  being  poor,  and  working  hard  ! '  said  Dora,  nestling  closer 
to  me.     '  Oh,  don't,  don't  !  ' 

'  My  dearest  love,'  said  I,  '  the  crust  well  earned ' 

'  Oh,  yes  ;  but  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  crusts  !  '  said  Dora.  '  And 
Jip  must  have  a  mutton-chop  every  day  at  twelve,  or  he  '11  die  !  ' 

I  was  charmed  with  her  childish,  winning  way.  I  fondly  explained  to  Dora  that 
Jip  should  have  his  mutton-chop  with  his  accustomed  regularity.  I  drew  a  picture 
of  our  frugal  home,  made  independent  by  my  labour — sketching-in  the  little  house 
I  had  seen  at  Highgate,  and  my  aunt  in  her  room  upstairs. 

'  I  am  not  dreadful  now,  Dora  ?  '    said  I,  tenderly. 

'  Oh,  no,  no  !  '  cried  Dora.  '  But  I  hope  your  aunt  will  keep  in  her  own  room 
a  good  deal  !     And  I  hope  she  's  not  a  scolding  old  thing  !  ' 

If  it  were  possible  for  me  to  love  Dora  more  than  ever,  I  am  siu-e  I  did.  But  I 
felt  she  was  a  little  impracticable.  It  damped  my  new-born  ardour,  to  find  that 
ardour  so  difficult  of  communication  to  her.  I  made  another  trial.  When  she  was 
quite  herself  again,  and  was  curling  Jip's  ears,  as  he  lay  upon  her  lap,  I  became  grave, 
and  said — 

'  My  own  !     May  I  mention  something  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  please  don't  be  practical  !  '  said  Dora  coaxingly.  '  Because  it  frightens 
me  so  !  ' 

'  Sweet  heart  !  '  I  returned  ;  '  there  is  nothing  to  alarm  you  in  all  this.  I  want 
you  to  think  of  it  quite  differently.  I  want  to  make  it  nerve  you,  and  inspire  you, 
Dora  !  * 

'  Oh,  but  that 's  so  shocking  !  '   cried  Dora. 

'  My  love,  no.  Perseverance  and  strength  of  character  will  enable  us  to  bear 
much  worse  things.' 

'  But  I  haven't  got  any  strength  at  all,'  said  Dora,  shaking  her  curls.     '  Have  I 
Jip  ?     Oh,  do  kiss  Jip,  and  be  agreeable  !  ' 


A  LITTLE  COLD  WATER  35 1 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  kissing  Jip,  wlien  she  held  him  up  to  me  for  that 
purpose,  putting  her  own  bright,  rosy  little  mouth  into  kissing  form,  us  she  direeted 
the  operation,  which  she  insisted  should  be  performed  symmetrically,  on  the  centre 
of  his  nose.  I  did  us  she  bade  me— rewurding  myself  afterwards  for  my  obedience — 
and  she  charmed  me  out  of  my  graver  character  for  I  don't  know  how  long. 

'  But,  Dora,  my  beloved  !  '  said  I,  ut  last  resuming  it  ;  'I  was  going  to  mention 
something.' 

The  Judge  of  the  Prerogative  Court  might  have  fallen  in  love  with  her,  to  see 
her  fold  her  little  hands  and  hold  them  up,  begging  and  praying  me  not  to  be  dreadful 
any  more. 

'  Indeed  I  am  not  going  to  be,  my  darling  !  '  I  assured  her.  '  But,  Dora,  my  love, 
if  you  will  sometimes  think — not  despondingly,  you  know  ;  far  from  that  ! — but  if 
you  will  sometimes  think — just  to  encourage  yourself — that  you  are  engaged  to  a  poor 
man ' 

'  Don't,  don't  !     Pray  don't  !  '   cried  Dora.     '  It 's  so  very  dreadful  !  ' 

'  My  soul,  not  at  all  !  '  said  I  cheerfully.  '  If  you  will  sometimes  think  of  that, 
and  look  about  now  and  then  at  your  papa's  housekeeping,  and  endeavour  to  acquire 
a  little  habit — of  accounts,  for  instance ' 

Poor  little  Dora  received  this  suggestion  with  something  that  was  half  a  sob 
and  half  a  scream. 

'  — It  would  be  so  useful  to  us  afterwards,'  I  went  on.  '  And  if  you  would  promise 
me  to  read  a  little — a  little  Cookery  Book  that  I  would  send  you,  it  would  be  so 
excellent  for  both  of  us.  For  our  path  in  life,  my  Dora,'  said  I,  warming  with  the 
subject,  '  is  stony  and  rugged  now,  and  it  rests  with  us  to  smooth  it.  We  must  fight 
our  way  onward.  We  must  be  brave.  There  are  obstacles  to  be  met,  and  we  must 
meet,  and  crush  them  !  ' 

I  was  going  on  at  a  great  rate,  with  a  clenched  hand,  and  a  most  enthusiastic 
countenance  ;  but  it  was  quite  unnecessary  to  proceed.  I  had  said  enough.  I  had 
done  it  again.  Oh,  she  was  so  frightened  !  Oh,  where  was  Julia  Mills  ?  Oh,  take 
her  to  Julia  Mills,  and  go  away,  please  !  So  that,  in  short,  I  was  quite  distracted,  and 
raved  about  the  drawing-room. 

I  thought  I  had  killed  her,  this  time.  I  sprinkled  water  on  her  face.  I  went  down 
on  my  knees.  I  plucked  at  my  hair.  I  denounced  myself  as  a  remorseless  brute 
and  a  ruthless  beast.  I  implored  her  forgiveness.  I  besought  her  to  look  up.  I 
ravaged  Miss  Mills's  work-box  for  a  smelling-bottle,  and  in  my  agony  of  mind  applied 
an  ivory  needle-case  instead,  and  dropped  all  the  needles  over  Dora.  I  shook  my 
fists  at  Jip,  who  was  as  frantic  as  myself.  I  did  every  wild  extravagance  that  could 
be  done,  and  was  a  long  way  beyond  the  end  of  my  wits  when  Miss  Mills  came  into 
the  room. 

'  Who  has  done  this  ?  '   exclaimed  Miss  Mills,  succouring  her  friend. 

I  replied,  '  /,  Miss  Mills  !  /  have  done  it  !  Behold  the  destroyer  !  ' — or  words 
to  that  effect — and  hid  my  face  from  the  light,  in  the  sofa  cushion. 

At  first  Miss  Mills  thought  it  was  a  quarrel,  and  that  we  were  verging  on  the 
Desert  of  Sahara  ;  but  she  soon  found  out  how  matters  stood,  for  my  dear  affectionate 
little  Dora,  embracing  her,  began  exclaiming  that  I  was  '  a  poor  labourer  '  ;  and  then 
cried  for  me,  and  embraced  me,  and  asked  me  would  I  let  her  give  me  all  her  money 
to  keep,  and  then  fell  on  Miss  Mills's  neck,  sobbing  as  if  her  tender  heart  were  broken. 

Miss  Mills  must  have  been  born  to  be  a  blessing  to  us.     She  ascertained  from  me 


352  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

in  a  few  words  what  it  was  all  about,  comforted  Dora,  and  gradually  convinced  her 
that  I  was  not  a  labourer — from  my  manner  of  stating  the  case  I  believe  Dora 
concluded  that  I  was  a  navigator,  and  went  balancing  myself  up  and  down  a  plank 
all  day  with  a  wheelbarrow — and  so  brought  us  together  in  peace.  When  we  were 
quite  composed,  and  Dora  had  gone  upstairs  to  put  some  rose-water  to  her  eyes.  Miss 
Mills  rang  for  tea.  In  the  ensuing  interval,  I  told  Miss  Mills  that  she  was  evermore 
my  friend,  and  that  my  heart  must  cease  to  vibrate  ere  I  could  forget  her  sympathy. 

I  then  expounded  to  Miss  Mills  what  I  had  endeavoured,  so  very  unsuccessfully, 
to  expound  to  Dora.  Miss  Mills  replied,  on  general  principles,  that  the  Cottage  of 
content  was  better  than  the  Palace  of  cold  splendour,  and  that  where  love  was,  all  was. 

I  said  to  Miss  Mills  that  this  was  very  true,  and  who  should  know  it  better  than  I, 
who  loved  Dora  with  a  love  that  never  mortal  had  experienced  yet  ?  But  on  Miss 
Mills  observing,  with  despondency,  that  it  were  well  indeed  for  some  hearts  if  this 
were  so,  I  explained  that  I  begged  leave  to  restrict  the  observation  to  mortals  of  the 
masculine  gender. 

I  then  put  it  to  Miss  Mills,  to  say  whether  she  considered  that  there  was  or  was 
not  any  practical  merit  in  the  suggestion  I  had  been  anxious  to  make,  concerning  the 
accounts,  the  housekeeping,  and  the  Cookery  Book  ? 

Miss  Mills,  after  some  consideration,  thus  replied — 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  will  be  plain  with  you.  Mental  suffering  and  trial  supply,  in 
some  natures,  the  place  of  years,  and  I  will  be  as  plain  with  you  as  if  I  were  a  Lady 
Abbess.  No.  The  suggestion  is  not  appropriate  to  our  Dora.  Our  dearest  Dora  is 
a  favourite  child  of  nature.     She  is  a  thing  of  light,  and  airiness,  and  joy.     I  am 

free  to  confess  that  if  it  could  be  done,  it  might  be  well,  but '     And  Miss  Mills 

shook  her  head. 

I  was  encouraged  by  this  closing  admission  on  the  part  of  Miss  Mills  to  ask  her, 
whether,  for  Dora's  sake,  if  she  had  any  opportunity  of  luring  her  attention  to  such 
preparations  for  an  earnest  life,  she  would  avail  herself  of  it  ?  Miss  Mills  replied  in 
the  affirmative  so  readily,  that  I  further  asked  her  if  she  would  take  charge  of  the 
Cookery  Book  ;  and,  if  she  ever  could  insinuate  it  upon  Dora's  acceptance,  without 
frightening  her,  undertake  to  do  me  that  crowning  service.  Miss  Mills  accepted  this 
trust,  too  ;    but  was  not  sanguine. 

And  Dora  retiu"ned,  looking  such  a  lovely  little  creature,  that  I  really  doubted 
whether  she  ought  to  be  troubled  with  anji^hing  so  ordinary.  And  she  loved  me  so 
much,  and  was  so  captivating  (particularly  when  she  made  Jip  stand  on  his  hind-legs 
for  toast,  and  when  she  pretended  to  hold  that  nose  of  his  against  the  hot  tea-pot  for 
punishment  because  he  wouldn't),  that  I  felt  like  a  sort  of  Monster  who  had  got  into  a 
Fairy's  bower,  when  I  thought  of  having  frightened  her,  and  made  her  cry. 

After  tea  we  had  the  guitar  ;  and  Dora  sang  those  same  dear  old  French  songs 
about  the  impossibility  of  ever  on  any  account  leaving  off  dancing.  La  ra  la,  La  ra  la, 
until  I  felt  a  much  greater  Monster  than  before. 

We  had  only  one  check  to  our  pleasure,  and  that  happened  a  little  while  before 
I  took  my  leave,  when.  Miss  Mills  chancing  to  make  some  allusion  to  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, I  unluckily  let  out  that,  being  obliged  to  exert  myself  now,  I  got  up  at  five  o'clock. 
Whether  Dora  had  any  idea  that  I  was  a  private  watchman,  I  am  unable  to  say  ;  but 
it  made  a  great  impression  on  her,  and  she  neither  played  nor  sang  any  more. 

It  was  still  on  her  mind  when  I  bade  her  adieu  ;  and  she  said  to  me,  in  her  pretty 
coaxing  way — as  if  I  were  a  doll,  I  used  to  think — 


i 


I   FALL   INTO   CAPTIVITY 

•  1  had  not  been  walkiiiK  loni?,  when  I  turned  a.  corner,  and  met  her. 
1  liuKlu  asaiii  from  hoad  to  fool  as  my  recollection  turns  that  corner,  and  my 
lien  shakes  in  my  hand.'  {Pane  !M) 


A  DISSOLUTION  OF  PARTNERSHIP  aw 

'  Now  don't  get  up  at  five  o'cUx-k,  you  naughty  boy.     It 's  so  nonsensical  !  ' 

'  My  love,'  said  I,  '  I  have  work  to  do.' 

'  But  don't  do  it  1  '   returned  Dora.     '  Why  should  you  ?  ' 

It  was  impossible  to  say  to  that  sweet  little  surprised  face,  otherwise  than  lightly 
and  playfully,  that  we  must  work,  to  live. 

'  Oh  !     How  ridiculous  !  '    cried  Uora. 

'  How  shall  we  live  without,  Dora  ?  '  said  I. 

'  How  ?     Any  how  !  '    said  Dora. 

She  seemed  to  think  she  had  quite  settled  the  question,  and  gave  me  such  a 
triumphant  little  kiss,  direct  from  her  innocent  heart,  that  I  would  hardly  have  put 
her  out  of  conceit  with  her  answer,  for  a  fortune. 

Well !  I  loved  her,  and  I  went  on  loving  her,  most  absorbingly,  entirely,  and 
completely.  But  going  on,  too,  working  pretty  hard,  and  busily  keeping  red-hot 
all  the  irons  I  now  had  in  the  fire,  I  would  sit  sometimes  of  a  night,  opposite  my  aunt, 
thinking  how  I  had  frightened  Dora  that  time,  and  how  I  could  best  make  my  way 
with  a  guitar-case  through  the  forest  of  difficulty,  until  I  used  to  fancy  that  my  head 
was  turning  quite  grey. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

A  DISSOLUTION  OF  PARTNERSHIP 

I  DID  not  allow  my  resolution,  with  respect  to  the  Parliamentary  Debates,  to  cool. 
It  was  one  of  the  irons  I  began  to  heat  immediately,  and  one  of  the  irons  I  kept 
hot,  and  hammered  at,  with  a  perseverance  I  may  honestly  admire.  I  bought 
an  appi'oved  scheme  of  the  noble  art  and  mystery  of  stenography  (which  cost 
me  ten  and  sixpence),  and  plunged  into  a  sea  of  perplexity  that  brought  me,  in  a  few 
weeks,  to  the  confines  of  distraction.  The  changes  that  were  rung  upon  dots,  which 
in  such  a  position  meant  such  a  thing,  and  in  such  another  position  something  else, 
entirely  different  ;  the  wonderful  vagaries  that  were  played  by  circles  ;  the  un- 
accountable consequences  that  resulted  from  marks  like  flies'  legs  ;  the  tremendous 
effects  of  a  curve  in  a  wrong  place  ;  not  only  troubled  my  waking  hours,  but  reappeared 
before  me  in  my  sleep.  When  I  had  groped  my  way,  blindly,  through  these  diffi- 
culties, and  had  mastered  the  alphabet,  which  was  an  Egyptian  Temple  in  itself, 
there  then  appeared  a  procession  of  new  horrors,  called  arbitrary  characters  ;  the 
most  despotic  characters  I  have  every  known  ;  who  insisted,  for  instance,  that  a  thing 
like  the  beginning  of  a  cobweb,  meant  expectation,  and  that  a  pen-and-ink  sky-rocket 
stood  for  disadvantageous.  When  I  had  fixed  these  wretches  in  my  mind,  I  found 
that  they  had  driven  everything  else  out  of  it  ;  then,  beginning  again,  I  forgot  them  ; 
while  I  was  picking  them  up,  I  dropped  the  other  fragments  of  the  system  ;  in  short, 
it  was  almost  heart-breaking. 

It  might  have  been  quite  heart-breaking,  but  for  Dora,  who  was  the  stay  and 
anchor  of  my  tempest-driven  bark.  Every  scratch  in  the  scheme  was  a  gnarled  oak 
in  the  forest  of  difficulty,  and  I  went  on  cutting  them  down,  one  after  another,  with 
such  vigour,  that  in  three  or  four  months  I  was  in  a  condition  to  make  an  experiment 
on  one  of  our  crack  speakers  in  the  Commons.     Shall  I  ever  forget  how  the  crack 

H 


354  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

speaker  walked  off  from  me  before  I  began,  and  left  my  imbecile  pencil  staggering 
about  the  paper  as  if  it  were  in  a  fit  ! 

This  would  not  do,  it  was  quite  clear.  I  was  flying  too  high,  and  should  never 
get  on,  so.  I  resorted  to  Traddles  for  advice  ;  who  suggested  that  he  should  dictate 
speeches  to  me,  at  a  pace,  and  with  occasional  stoppages,  adapted  to  my  weakness. 
Very  grateful  for  this  friendly  aid,  I  accepted  the  proposal  ;  and  night  after  night, 
almost  every  night,  for  a  long  time,  we  had  a  sort  of  private  Parliament  in  Buckingham 
Street,  after  I  came  home  from  the  Doctor's. 

I  should  like  to  see  such  a  Parliament  anywhere  else  !  My  aunt  and  Mr.  Dick 
represented  the  Government  or  the  Opposition  (as  the  case  might  be),  and  Traddles, 
with  the  assistance  of  Enfield's  Speaker  or  a  volume  of  parliamentary  orations, 
thundered  astonishing  invectives  against  them.  Standing  by  the  table,  with  his  finger 
in  the  page  to  keep  the  place,  and  his  right  arm  flourishing  above  his  head,  Traddles, 
as  Mr.  Pitt,  Mr.  Fox,  Mr.  Sheridan,  Mr.  Burke,  Lord  Castlereagh,  Viscount  Sidmouth, 
or  Mr.  Canning,  would  work  himself  into  the  most  violent  heats,  and  deliver  the  most 
withering  denunciations  of  the  profligacy  and  corruption  of  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Dick  ; 
while  I  used  to  sit,  at  a  little  distance,  with  my  note-book  on  my  knee,  fagging  after 
him  with  all  my  might  and  main.  The  inconsistency  and  recklessness  of  Traddles 
were  not  to  be  exceeded  by  any  real  politician.  He  was  for  any  description  of  policy, 
in  the  compass  of  a  week  ;  and  nailed  all  sorts  of  colours  to  every  denomination  of 
mast.  My  aunt,  looking  very  like  an  immoveable  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  would 
occasionally  throw  in  an  interruption  or  two,  as  '  Hear  !  '  or  '  No  !  '  or  '  Oh  !  '  when 
the  text  seemed  to  require  it  :  which  was  always  a  signal  to  Mr.  Dick  (a  perfect  country 
gentleman)  to  follow  lustily  with  the  same  cry.  But  Mr.  Dick  got  taxed  with  such 
things  in  the  course  of  his  Parliamentary  career,  and  was  made  responsible  for  such 
awful  consequences,  that  he  became  uncomfortable  in  his  mind  sometimes.  I  believe 
he  actually  began  to  be  afraid  he  really  had  been  doing  something,  tending  to  the 
annihilation  of  the  British  constitution,  and  the  ruin  of  the  country. 

Often  and  often  we  pursued  these  debates  until  the  clock  pointed  to  midnight, 
and  the  candles  were  burning  down.  The  result  of  so  much  good  practice  was,  that  by 
and  by  I  began  to  keep  pace  with  Traddles  pretty  well,  and  should  have  been  quite 
triumphant  if  I  had  had  the  least  idea  what  my  notes  were  about.  But,  as  to  reading 
them  after  I  had  got  them,  I  might  as  well  have  copied  the  Chinese  inscriptions  on  an 
immense  collection  of  tea-chests,  or  the  golden  characters  on  all  the  great  red  and 
green  bottles  in  the  chemists'  shops  ! 

There  was  nothing  for  it,  but  to  turn  back  and  begin  all  over  again.  It  was  very 
hard,  but  I  turned  back,  though  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  began  laboriously  and 
methodically  to  plod  over  the  same  tedious  ground  at  a  snail's  pace  ;  stopping  to 
examine  minutely  every  speck  in  the  way,  on  all  sides,  and  making  the  most  desperate 
efforts  to  know  these  elusive  characters  by  sight  wherever  I  met  them.  I  was  always 
punctual  at  the  office  ;  at  the  Doctor's  too  :  and  I  really  did  work,  as  the  common 
expression  is,  like  a  cart-horse. 

One  day,  when  I  went  to  the  Commons  as  usual,  I  found  Mr.  Spenlow  in  the 
doorway  looking  extremely  grave,  and  talking  to  himself.  As  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  complaining  of  pains  in  his  head — he  had  naturally  a  short  throat,  and  I  do 
seriously  believe  he  overstarched  himself — I  was  at  first  alarmed  by  the  idea  that 
he  was  not  quite  right  in  that  direction  ;   but  he  soon  relieved  my  uneasiness. 

Instead  of  returning  my  '  Good  morning  '  with  his  usual  affability,  he  looked  at 


A    DISSOJjri'lON   OK  I'ARTNERSHir  :\r,5 

me  in  a  distjuit,  cerenioiiious  iiiiiniicr,  und  coldly  rccjucstcil  iiic  to  uc(:oiii[j;iiiy  him  to 
a  certain  colTcc-housc,  wliich,  in  those  days,  had  a  door  opcninf^  into  the  Commons, 
just  within  the  little  archway  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  I  coniplie<l,  in  a  very  un- 
comfortable state,  and  with  a  warm  shootiiif^  all  over  me,  as  if  my  apprehensions 
were  breaking  out  into  buds.  When  I  allowed  him  to  go  on  a  little  liefore,  on  account 
of  the  narrowness  of  the  way,  I  observed  that  he  carried  his  liead  with  a  lofty  air  that 
was  particularly  unpromising  ;  and  my  mind  misgave  me  that  he  had  found  out  uliout 
my  darling  Dora. 

If  I  had  not  guessed  this,  on  the  way  to  the  coffee-house,  I  could  hardly  have 
failed  to  know  what  was  the  matter  when  I  followed  him  into  an  upstairs  room,  and 
found  Miss  Murdstonc  there,  su[)portod  by  a  background  of  sideboard,  on  which  were 
several  inverted  tumblers  sustaining  lemons,  and  two  of  those  extraordinary  boxes, 
all  corners  and  flutings,  for  sticking  knives  and  forks  in,  which,  happily  for  mankind, 
are  now  obsolete. 

Miss  Murdstonc  gave  me  her  chilly  finger-nails,  and  sat  severely  rigid.  Mr. 
Spenlow  shut  the  door,  motioned  me  to  a  chair,  and  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  in  front 
of  the  fireplace. 

'  Have  the  goodness  to  show  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Speidow,  '  what  you  have 
in  your  reticule,  Miss  Murdstonc.' 

I  believe  it  was  the  old  identical  steel-clasped  reticule  of  my  childhood,  that  shut 
up  like  a  bite.  Compressing  her  lips,  in  sympathy  with  the  snap.  Miss  Murdstonc 
opened  it — opening  her  mouth  a  little  at  the  same  time — and  produced  my  last  letter 
to  Dora,  teeming  with  expressions  of  devoted  affection. 

'  I  believe  that  is  your  writing,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?  '   said  Mr.  Spenlow. 

I  was  very  hot,  and  the  voice  I  heard  was  very  unlike  mine,  when  I  said,  '  It 
is,  sir  !  ' 

'  If  I  am  not  mistaken,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  as  IMiss  Murdstonc  brought  a  parcel 
of  letters  out  of  her  reticule,  tied  round  with  the  dearest  bit  of  blue 'ribbon,  '  those 
are  also  from  your  pen,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?  ' 

I  took  them  from  her  with  a  most  desolate  sensation  ;  and,  glancing  at  such  phrases 
at  the  top,  as  '  My  ever  dearest  and  own  Dora,'  '  My  best  beloved  angel,'  '  My  blessed 
one  for  ever,'  and  the  like,  blushed  deeply,  and  inclined  my  head. 

'  No  thank  you  !  '  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  coldly,  as  I  mechanically  offered  them  back 
to  him.    '  I  will  not  deprive  you  of  them.     Miss  Murdstonc,  be  so  good  as  to  proceed  ! ' 

That  gentle  creature,  after  a  moment's  thoughtful  survey  of  tlie  carpet,  delivered 
herself  with  much  dry  unction  as  follows — 

'  I  must  confess  to  having  entertained  my  suspicions  of  Miss  Spenlow,  in  reference 
to  David  Copperfield,  for  some  time.  I  observed  Miss  Spenlow  and  David  Copper- 
field,  when  they  first  met ;  and  the  impression  made  upon  me  then  was  not  agreeable. 
The  depravity  of  the  human  heart  is  such ' 

'  You  will  oblige  me,  ma'am,'  interrupted  Mr.  Spenlow,  '  by  confining  yourself 
to  facts.' 

Miss  Murdstonc  cast  down  her  eyes,  shook  her  head  as  if  protesting  against  this 
unseemly  interruption,  and  with  frowning  dignity  resumed — 

'  Since  I  am  to  confine  myself  to  facts,  I  will  state  them  as  dryly  as  I 
can.  Perhaps  that  will  be  considered  an  acceptable  course  of  proceeding.  I  have 
already  said,  sir,  that  I  have  had  my  suspicions  of  ]Miss  Spenlow,  in  reference  to 
David  Copperfield,  for  some  time.     I  have  frequently  endeavoured  to  find  decisive 


356  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

corroboration  of  those  suspicions,  but  without  effect.  I  have  therefore  forborne  to 
mention  them  to  Miss  Spenlow's  father  '  ;  looking  severely  at  him  ;  '  knowing  how 
little  disposition  there  usually  is  in  such  cases,  to  acknowledge  the  conscientious 
discharge  of  duty.' 

Mr.  Spenlow  seemed  quite  cowed  by  the  gentlemanly  sternness  of  Miss  Murdstone's 
manner,  and  deprecated  her  severity  with  a  conciliatory  little  wave  of  his  hand. 

'  On  my  return  to  Norwood,  after  the  period  of  absence  occasioned  by  my  brother's 
marriage,'  pursued  Miss  Murdstone  in  a  disdainful  voice,  '  and  on  the  return  of  Miss 
Spenlow  from  her  visit  to  her  friend  Miss  Mills,  I  imagined  that  the  manner  of  Miss 
Spenlow  gave  me  greater  occasion  for  suspicion  than  before.  Therefore  I  watched 
Miss  Spenlow  closely.' 

Dear,  tender  little  Dora,  so  unconscious  of  this  Dragon's  eye. 

'  Still,'  resumed  Miss  Murdstone,  '  I  found  no  proof  until  last  night.  It  appeared 
to  me  that  Miss  Spenlow  received  too  many  letters  from  her  friend  Miss  Mills  ;  but 
Miss  Mills  being  her  friend  with  her  father's  full  concurrence,'  another  telling  blow  at 
Mr.  Spenlow,  '  it  was  not  for  me  to  interfere.  If  I  may  not  be  permitted  to  allude  to 
the  natural  depravity  of  the  human  heart,  at  least  I  may — I  must — be  permitted,  so 
far  to  refer  to  misplaced  confidence.' 

Mr.  Spenlow  apologetically  murnaured  his  assent. 

'  Last  evening  after  tea,'  pursued  Miss  Murdstone,  '  I  observed  the  little  dog 
starting,  roUing,  and  growling  about  the  drawing-room,  worrying  something.  I  said 
to  Miss  Spenlow,  "  Dora,  what  is  that  the  dog  has  in  his  mouth  ?  It 's  paper."  Miss 
Spenlow  immediately  put  her  hand  to  her  frock,  gave  a  sudden  cry,  and  ran  to  the 
dog.  I  interposed,  and  said  "  Dora  my  love,  you  must  permit  me."  ' 
Oh  Jip,  miserable  Spaniel,  this  wretchedness,  then,  was  your  work  ! 
'  Miss  Spenlow  endeavoured,'  said  Miss  Murdstone,  '  to  bribe  me  with  kisses, 
work-boxes,  and  small  articles  of  jewellery — that,  of  course,  I  pass  over.  The  little 
dog  retreated  under  the  sofa  on  my  approaching  him,  and  was  with  great  difficulty 
dislodged  by  the  fire-irons.  Even  when  dislodged,  he  still  kept  the  letter  in  his  mouth  ; 
and  on  my  endeavouring  to  take  it  from  him,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  being  bitten, 
he  kept  it  between  his  teeth  so  pertinaciously  as  to  suffer  himself  to  be  held  suspended 
in  the  air  by  means  of  the  document.  At  length  I  obtained  possession  of  it.  After 
perusing  it,  I  taxed  Miss  Spenlow  with  having  many  such  letters  in  her  possession ; 
and  ultimately  obtained  from  her,  the  packet  which  is  now  in  David  Copperfield's 
hand.' 

Here  she  ceased  ;  and  snapping  her  reticule  again,  and  shutting  her  mouth, 
looked  as  if  she  might  be  broken,  but  could  never  be  bent. 

'  You  have  heard  Miss  Murdstone,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  turning  to  me.  '  I  beg  to 
ask,  Mr.  Copperfield,  if  you  have  anything  to  say  in  reply  ?  ' 

The  picture  I  had  before  me,  of  the  beautiful  little  treasure  of  my  heart,  sobbing 
and  crying  all  night — of  her  being  alone,  frightened,  and  wretched,  then — of  her  having 
so  piteously  begged  and  prayed  that  stony-hearted  woman  to  forgive  her- — of  her 
having  vainly  offered  her  those  kisses,  work-boxes,  and  trinkets — of  her  being  in  such 
grievous  distress,  and  all  for  me — very  much  impaired  the  little  dignity  I  had  been 
able  to  muster.  I  am  afraid  I  was  in  a  tremulous  state  for  a  minute  or  so,  though  I 
did  my  best  to  disguise  it. 

'  There  is  nothing  I  can  say,  sir,'  I  returned,  '  except  that  all  the  blame  is  mine. 
Dora ' 


A    DISSOLUTION  OF  PARTNERSIII F*  357 

'  Miss  Spenlow,  if  you  please,'  said  her  father,  majestically. 

'  — was  induced  and  pcrsniidcfi  hy  me,'  I  went  on,  swallowing  that  colder  designa- 
tion, '  to  consent  to  this  concealment,  and  I  bitterly  rej^ret  it.' 

'  You  are  very  much  to  blame,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  walking  to  and  fro  npf>n 
the  hearth-rug,  and  em[)hasising  what  he  said  with  his  whole  body  instead  of  his 
head,  on  account  of  the  stiffness  of  his  cravat  and  spine.  '  You  have  done  a  stealthy 
and  unbecoming  action,  Mr.  C'opperfield.  When  I  take  a  gentleman  to  my  house,  no 
matter  whether  he  is  nineteen,  twenty-nine,  or  ninety,  I  take  him  there  in  a  spirit 
of  confidence.  If  he  abuses  my  confidence,  he  commits  a  dishonourable  action, 
Mr.  Copperficld.' 

'  I  feel  it,  sir,  I  assure  you,'  I  returned.  '  But  I  never  thought  so.  before. 
Sincerely,  honestly,  indeed,  Mr.  Spenlow,  I  never  thought  so  before.  I  love  Miss 
Spenlow  to  that  extent ' 

'  Pooh  !  nonsense  !  '  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  reddening.  '  Pray  don't  tell  me  to  my 
face  that  you  love  my  daughter,  Mr.  Copperficld  !  ' 

'  Could  I  defend  my  conduct  if  I  did  not,  sir  ?  '    I  returned,  with  all  humility. 

'  Can  you  defend  your  conduct  if  you  do,  sir  ?  '  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  stopping 
short  upon  the  hearth-rug.  '  Have  you  considered  your  years,  and  my  daughter's 
years,  Mr.  Copperficld  ?  Have  you  considered  what  it  is  to  undermine  the  confidence 
that  should  subsist  between  my  daughter  and  myself  ?  Have  you  considered  my 
daughter's  station  in  life,  the  projects  I  may  contemplate  for  her  advancement,  the 
testamentary  intentions  I  may  have  with  reference  to  her  ?  Have  you  considered 
anything,  Mr.  Copperficld  ?  ' 

'  Very  little,  sir,  I  am  afraid  '  ;  I  answered,  speaking  to  him  as  respectfully  and 
sorrowfully  as  I  felt  ;  '  l)ut  pray  believe  me,  I  have  considered  my  own  worldly 
position.     When  I  explained  it  to  you,  we  were  already  engaged ' 

'  I  BEG,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  more  like  Punch  than  I  had  ever  seen  him, 
as  he  energetically  struck  one  hand  upon  the  other — I  could  not  help  noticing 
that  even  in  my  despair ;  '  that  you  will  not  talk  to  me  of  engagements,  Mr. 
Copperficld  !  ' 

The  otherwise  immovable  Jliss  Murdstone  laughted  contemptuously  in  one 
short  syllable. 

'  When  I  explained  my  altered  position  to  you,  sir,'  I  began  again,  substituting 
a  new  form  of  expression  for  what  was  so  unpalatable  to  him,  '  this  concealment  into 
which  I  am  so  unhappy  as  to  have  led  Miss  Spenlow.  had  begun.  Since  I  have  l)een 
in  that  altered  position,  I  have  strained  every  nerve,  I  have  exerted  every  energj', 
to  improve  it.  I  am  sure  I  shall  improve  it  in  time.  Will  you  grant  me  time — any 
length  of  time  ?     We  are  both  so  young,  sir ' 

'  You  are  right,'  interrupted  Mr.  Spenlow,  nodding  his  head  a  great  many  times, 
and  frowning  very  much,  '  you  are  both  very  young.  It 's  all  nonsense.  Let  there 
be  an  end  of  the  nonsense.  Take  away  those  letters,  and  throw  them  in  the  fire. 
Give  me  Miss  Spenlow's  letters  to  throw  in  the  fire  ;  and  although  our  future  inter- 
course must,  you  are  aware,  be  restricted  to  the  Commons  here,  we  will  agree  to  make 
no  further  mention  of  the  past.  Come,  Mr.  Copperficld,  you  don't  want  sense  ;  and 
this  is  the  sensible  course.' 

No.  I  couldn't  think  of  agreeing  to  it.  I  was  very  sorry,  but  there  was  a  higher 
consideration  than  sense.  Love  was  above  all  earthly  considerations,  and  I  loved 
Dora  to  idolatry,  and  Dora  loved  me.     I  didn't  exactly  say  so  ;    I  softened  it  down 


358  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

as  much  as  I  could  ;  but  I  implied  it,  and  I  was  resolute  upon  it.  I  don't  think  I 
made  myself  very  ridiculous,  but  I  know  I  was  resolute. 

'  Very  well,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  '  I  must  try  my  influence  with 
my  daughter.' 

Miss  Murdstone,  by  an  expressive  sound,  a  long-drawn  respiration,  which  was 
neither  a  sigh  nor  a  moan,  but  was  like  both,  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  he  should 
have  done  this  at  first. 

'  I  must  try,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  confirmed  by  this  support,  '  my  influence  with 
my  daughter.  Do  you  decline  to  take  those  letters,  Mr.  Copperfield.'  For  I  had 
laid  them  on  the  table. 

Yes.  I  told  him  I  hoped  he  would  not  think  it  wrong,  but  I  couldn't  possibly 
take  them  from  Miss  Murdstone. 

'  Nor  from  me  ?  '    said  Mr.  Spenlow. 

No,  I  replied  with  the  profoundest  respect ;  nor  from  him. 

'  Very  well ! '  said  Mr.  Spenlow. 

A  silence  succeeding,  I  was  undecided  whether  to  go  or  stay.  At  length  I  was 
moving  quietly  towards  the  door,  with  the  intention  of  saying  that  perhaps  I  should 
consult  his  feelings  best  by  withdrawing  :  when  he  said,  with  his  hands  in  his  coat- 
pockets,  into  which  it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  get  them  ;  and  with  what  I 
should  call,  upon  the  whole,  a  decidedly  pious  air — 

'  You  are  probably  aware,  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  I  am  not  altogether  destitute  of 
worldly  possessions,  and  that  my  daughter  is  my  nearest  and  dearest  relative  ?  ' 

I  hurriedly  made  him  a  reply  to  the  effect,  that  I  hoped  the  error  into  which  I 
had  been  betrayed  by  the  desperate  nature  of  my  love,  did  not  induce  him  to  think 
me  mercenary  too  ? 

'  I  don't  allude  to  the  matter  in  that  light,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow.  '  It  would  be 
better  for  yourself,  and  all  of  us,  if  you  were  mercenary,  Mr.  Copperfield — I  mean,  if 
you  were  more  discreet,  and  less  influenced  by  all  this  youthful  nonsense.  No,  I 
merely  say,  with  quite  another  view,  you  are  probably  aware  I  have  some  property 
to  bequeath  to  my  child  !  ' 

I  certainly  supposed  so. 

'  And  you  can  hardly  think,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  '  having  experience  of  what  we  see, 
in  the  Commons  here,  every  day,  of  the  various  unaccountable  and  negligent  pro- 
ceedings of  men,  in  respect  of  their  testamentary  arrangements — of  all  subjects,  the 
one  on  which  perhaps  the  strangest  revelations  of  human  inconsistency  are  to  be  met 
with — but  that  mine  are  made  '!  ' 

I  inclined  my  head  in  acquiescence. 

'  I  should  not  allow,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  with  an  evident  increase  of  pious  senti- 
ment, and  slowly  shaking  his  head  as  he  poised  himself  upon  his  toes  and  heels 
alternately,  '  my  suitable  provision  for  my  child  to  be  influenced  by  a  piece  of  youthful 
folly  like  the  present.  It  is  mere  folly.  Mere  nonsense.  In  a  little  while,  it  will 
weigh  lighter  than  any  feather.  But  I  might — I  might — if  this  silly  business  were 
not  completely  relinquished  altogether,  be  induced  in  some  anxious  moment  to  guard 
her  from,  and  surround  her  with  protections  against,  the  consequences  of,  any  foolish 
step  in  the  way  of  marriage.  Now,  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  hope  that  you  will  not  render 
it  necessary  for  mc  to  open,  even  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  closed  page  in  the 
book  of  life,  and  unsettle,  even  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  grave  affairs  long  since 
composed.' 


A    DISSOLUTION  OF  PARTNERSHIP  859 

Tliere  was  a  serenity,  a  tranquillity,  a  cairn-sunset  air  aljout  him,  which  quite 
affected  mc.  He  was  so  peaceful  and  rcsij^ned — clearly  had  his  affairs  in  such  perfect 
train,  and  so  systematically  wound  up — tliat  he  was  a  man  to  feel  touched  in  the 
contemplation  of.  I  really  think  I  saw  tears  rise  to  his  eyes,  from  the  depth  of  his 
own  feeling  of  all  this. 

But  what  could  I  do  ?  I  could  not  deny  Dora,  and  my  own  heart.  When  he 
told  me  I  had  better  take  a  week  to  consider  of  what  he  had  said,  how  could  I  say 
I  wouldn't  take  a  week,  yet  how  could  I  fail  to  know  that  no  amount  of  weeks  could 
influence  such  love  as  mine  ? 

'  In  the  meantime,  confer  with  Miss  Trotwood,  or  with  any  person  with  any 
knowledge  of  life,'  said  Mr.  Spenlow,  adjusting  his  cravat  with  both  hands.  '  Take  a 
week,  Mr.  Copperficld.' 

I  submitted  ;  and,  with  a  countenance  as  expressive  as  I  was  able  to  make  it  of 
dejected  and  despairing  constancy,  came  out  of  the  room.  Miss  Murdstone's  heavy 
eyebrows  followed  me  to  the  door — I  say  her  eyebrows  rather  than  her  eyes,  because 
they  were  much  more  important  in  her  face — and  she  looked  so  exactly  as  she  used 
to  look,  at  about  that  hour  of  the  morning,  in  our  parlour  at  Blunderstone,  that  I 
could  have  fancied  I  had  been  breaking  down  in  my  lessons  again,  and  that  the  dead 
weight  on  my  mind  was  that  horrible  old  spelling-book  with  oval  woodcuts,  shaped, 
to  my  youthful  fancy,  like  the  glasses  out  of  spectacles. 

When  I  got  to  the  office,  and,  shutting  out  old  Tiffey  and  the  rest  of  them  with 
my  hands,  sat  at  my  desk,  in  my  own  particular  nook,  thinking  of  this  earthquake 
that  had  taken  place  so  unexpectedly,  and  in  the  bitterness  of  my  spirit  cursing  Jip, 
I  fell  into  such  a  state  of  torment  about  Dora,  that  I  wonder  I  did  not  take  up  my 
hat  and  rush  insanely  to  Norwood.  The  idea  of  their  frightening  her,  and  making  her 
cry,  and  of  my  not  being  there  to  comfort  her,  was  so  excruciating,  that  it  impelled 
me  to  write  a  wild  letter  to  Mr.  Spenlow,  beseeching  him  not  to  visit  upon  her  the 
consequences  of  my  awful  destiny.  I  implored  him  to  spare  her  gentle  nature — not 
to  crush  a  fragile  flower — and  addressed  him  generally,  to  the  best  of  my  remem- 
brance, as  if,  instead  of  being  her  father,  he  had  been  an  ogre,  or  the  Dragon  of 
Wantley.  This  letter  I  sealed  and  laid  upon  his  desk  before  he  returned  ;  and  when 
he  came  in,  I  saw  him,  through  the  half-opened  door  of  his  room,  take  it  up  and  read  it. 

He  said  nothing  about  it  all  the  morning  ;  but  before  he  went  away  in  the  after- 
noon he  called  me  in,  and  told  me  that  I  need  not  make  myself  at  all  uneasy  about 
his  daughter's  happiness.  He  had  assured  her,  he  said,  that  it  was  all  nonsense  ; 
and  he  had  nothing  more  to  say  to  her.  He  believed  he  was  an  indulgent  father  (as 
indeed  he  was),  and  I  might  spare  myself  any  solicitude  on  her  account. 

'  You  may  make  it  necessary,  if  you  are  foolish  or  obstinate,  Mr.  Copperfieid,' 
he  observed,  '  for  me  to  send  my  daughter  abroad  again,  for  a  term  ;  but  I  have  a 
better  opinion  of  you.  I  hope  you  will  be  wiser  than  that,  in  a  few  days.  As  to  Miss 
Murdstone,'  for  I  had  alluded  to  her  in  the  letter,  '  I  respect  that  lady's  vigilance,  and 
feel  obliged  to  her  ;  but  she  has  strict  charge  to  avoid  the  subject.  All  I  desire,  Mr. 
Copperfieid,  is  that  it  should  be  forgotten.  All  you  have  got  to  do,  Mr.  Copperfieid, 
is  to  forget  it.' 

All  !  In  the  note  I  wrote  to  Miss  Mills,  I  bitterly  quoted  this  sentiment.  All 
I  had  to  do,  I  said,  with  gloomy  sarcasm,  was  to  forget  Dora.  That  was  all,  and 
what  was  that  ?  I  entreated  Miss  Mills  to  see  me,  that  evening.  If  it  could  not  be 
done  with  Mr.  Mills's  sanction  and  concurrence,  I  besought  a  clandestine  interview 


360  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

in  the  back-kitchen  where  the  mangle  was.  I  informed  her  that  my  reason  was 
tottering  on  its  throne,  and  only  she,  Miss  Mills,  could  prevent  its  being  deposed. 
I  signed  myself,  hers  distractedly  ;  and  I  couldn't  help  feeling,  while  I  read  this 
composition  over,  before  sending  it  by  a  porter,  that  it  was  something  in  the  style 
of  Mr.  Micawber. 

However,  I  sent  it.  At  night  I  repaired  to  Miss  Mills's  street,  and  walked  up  and 
down,  until  I  was  stealthily  fetched  in  by  Miss  Mills's  maid,  and  taken  the  area  way 
to  the  back-kitchen.  I  have  since  seen  reason  to  believe  that  there  was  nothing  on 
earth  to  prevent  my  going  in  at  the  front  door,  and  being  shown  up  into  the  drawing- 
room,  except  Miss  Mills's  love  of  the  romantic  and  mysterious. 

In  the  back-kitchen  I  raved  as  became  me.  I  went  there,  I  suppose,  to  make  a 
fool  of  myself,  and  I  am  quite  sure  I  did  it.  Miss  Mills  had  received  a  hasty  note  from 
Dora,  telling  her  that  all  was  discovered,  and  saying,  '  Oh  pray  come  to  me,  Julia, 
do,  do  !  '  But  Miss  Mills,  mistrusting  the  acceptability  of  her  presence  to  the  higher 
powers,  had  not  yet  gone  ;   and  we  were  all  benighted  in  the  Desert  of  Sahara. 

Miss  Mills  had  a  wonderful  flow  of  words,  and  liked  to  pour  them  out.  I  could 
not  help  feeling,  though  she  mingled  her  tears  with  mine,  that  she  had  a  dreadful 
luxury  in  our  afflictions.  She  petted  them,  as  I  may  say,  and  made  the  most  of  them. 
A  deep  gulf,  she  observed,  had  opened  between  Dora  and  me,  and  Love  could  only 
span  it  with  its  rainbow.  Love  must  suffer  in  this  stern  world  ;  it  ever  had  been  so, 
it  ever  would  be  so.  No  matter.  Miss  Mills  remarked.  Hearts  confined  by  cobwebs 
would  burst  at  last,  and  then  Love  was  avenged. 

This  was  small  consolation,  but  Miss  Mills  wouldn't  encourage  fallacious  hopes. 
She  made  me  much  more  wretched  than  I  was  before,  and  I  felt  (and  told  her  with  the 
deepest  gratitude)  that  she  was  indeed  a  friend.  We  resolved  that  she  should  go  to 
Dora  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  find  some  means  of  assuring  her,  either  by 
looks  or  words,  of  my  devotion  and  misery.  We  parted,  overwhelmed  with  grief  ; 
and  I  think  Miss  Mills  enjoyed  herself  completely. 

I  confided  all  to  my  aunt  when  I  got  home  ;  and  in  spite  of  all  she  could  say  to 
me,  went  to  bed  despairing.  I  got  up  despairing,  and  went  out  despairing.  It  was 
Saturday  morning,  and  I  went  straight  to  the  Commons. 

I  was  surprised,  when  I  came  within  sight  of  our  ofiice-door,  to  see  the  ticket- 
porters  standing  outside  talking  together,  and  some  half-dozen  stragglers  gazing  at 
the  windows  which  were  shut  up.  I  quickened  my  pace,  and,  passing  among  them, 
wondering  at  their  looks,  went  hurriedly  in. 

The  clerks  were  there,  but  nobody  was  doing  anything.  Old  Tiffey,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  I  should  think,  was  sitting  on  somebody  else's  stool,  and  had  not  hung 
up  his  hat. 

'  This  is  a  dreadful  calamity,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  he,  as  I  entered. 

'  What  is  ?  '    I  exclaimed.     '  What 's  the  matter  ?  ' 

'  Don't  you  know  ?  '   cried  Tiffey,  and  all  the  rest  of  them,  coming  round  me. 

'  No  1  '    said  I,  looking  from  face  to  face. 

'  Mr.  Spenlow,'  said  Tiffey. 

'  What  about  him  ?  ' 

'  Dead  !  ' 

I  thought  it  was  the  office  reeling,  and  not  I,  as  one  of  the  clerks  caught  hold  of 
me.  They  sat  me  down  in  a  chair,  imtied  my  neckcloth,  and  brought  me  some  water. 
I  have  no  idea  whether  this  took  any  time. 


A   DTSSOLUTrON  OF  PARTNERSHIP  noi 

'  Dead  ?  '    said  I. 

'  lie  dined  in  town  yestcrduy,  and  drove  down  in  Llie  pliacUjn  by  himself,'  said 
Tiffey,  '  havinj,'  sent  his  own  groom  home  by  the  coach,  as  he  sometimes  did,  you 
know ' 

'  Well  ?  • 

'  The  phaeton  went  home  without  him.  '1  lie  horses  stopped  at  the  stable  gate. 
The  man  went  out  with  a  lantern.     Nobody  in  the  carriage.' 

'  Had  they  run  away  V  ' 

'  They  were  not  hot,'  said  Tiffey,  putting  on  his  glasses  ;  '  no  hotter,  I  understand, 
than  they  would  have  been,  going  down  at  the  usual  pace.  The  reins  were  broken, 
but  they  had  been  dragging  on  the  ground.  The  house  was  roused  up  directly,  and 
three  of  them  went  out  along  the  road.     They  found  him  a  mile  off.' 

'  More  than  a  mile  off,  Mr.  Tiffey,'  interposed  a  junior. 

'  Was  it  ?  I  believe  you  are  right,'  said  Tiffey, — '  more  than  a  mile  off — not  far 
from  the  church^lying  partly  on  the  roadside,  and  partly  on  the  path,  upon  his  face. 
Wliether  he  fell  out  in  a  fit,  or  got  out,  feeling  ill  before  the  fit  came  on — or  even 
whether  he  was  quite  dead  then,  though  there  is  no  doubt  he  was  quite  insensible — no 
one  appears  to  know.  If  he  breathed,  certainly  he  never  spoke.  Medical  assistance 
was  got  as  soon  as  possible,  but  it  was  quite  useless.' 

I  cannot  describe  the  state  of  mind  into  which  I  was  thrown  by  this  intelligence. 
The  shock  of  such  an  event  happening  so  suddenly,  and  happening  to  one  with  whom 
I  had  been  in  any  respect  at  variance — the  appalling  vacancy  in  the  room  he  had 
occupied  so  lately,  where  his  chair  and  table  seemed  to  wait  for  him,  and  his  hand- 
writing of  yesterday  was  like  a  ghost — the  indefinable  impossibility  of  separating 
him  from  the  place,  and  feeling,  when  the  door  opened,  as  if  he  might  come  in — the 
lazy  hush  and  rest  there  was  in  the  office,  and  the  insatiable  relish  with  which  our 
people  talked  about  it,  and  other  people  came  in  and  out  all  day,  and  gorged  them- 
selves with  the  subject — this  is  easily  intelligible  to  any  one.  What  I  cannot  describe 
is,  how,  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  my  own  heart,  I  had  a  lurking  jealousy  even  of 
Death.  How  I  felt  as  if  its  might  woidd  push  me  from  my  ground  in  Dora's  thoughts. 
How  I  was,  in  a  grudging  way  I  have  no  words  for,  envious  of  her  grief.  How  it 
made  me  restless  to  think  of  her  weeping  to  others,  or  being  consoled  by  others.  How 
I  had  a  grasping,  avaricious  wish  to  shut  out  everybody  from  her  but  myself,  and  to 
be  all  in  all  to  her,  at  that  unseasonable  time  of  all  times. 

In  the  trouble  of  this  state  of  mind — not  exclusively  my  own,  I  hope,  but  known 
to  others — I  went  down  to  Norwood  that  night ;  and  finding  from  one  of  the  servants, 
when  I  made  my  inquiries  at  the  door,  that  Miss  Mills  was  there,  got  my  aunt  to  direct 
a  letter  to  her,  which  I  wrote.  I  deplored  the  untimely  death  of  Mr.  Spenlow  most 
sincerely,  and  shed  tears  in  doing  so.  I  entreated  her  to  tell  Dora,  if  Dora  were  in 
a  state  to  hear  it,  that  he  had  spoken  to  me  with  the  utmost  kindness  and  considera- 
tion ;  and  had  coupled  nothing  but  tenderness,  not  a  single  reproachful  word,  with 
her  name.  I  know  I  did  this  selfishly,  to  have  my  name  brought  before  her  ;  but  I 
tried  to  believe  it  was  an  act  of  justice  to  his  memory.     Perhaps  I  did  believe  it. 

My  aunt  received  a  few  lines  next  day  in  reply  ;  addressed,  outside,  to  her  ; 
within,  to  me.  Dora  was  overcome  by  grief  ;  and  when  her  friend  had  asked  her 
should  she  send  her  love  to  me,  had  only  cried,  as  she  was  always  crjang,  '  Oh,  dear 
papa  !   oh,  poor  papa  !  '     But  she  had  not  said  No,  and  that  I  made  the  most  of. 

Mr.  Jorkins,  who  had  been  at  Norwood  since  the  occurrence,  came  to  the  office 


862  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

a  few  days  afterwards.  He  and  Tiffey  were  closeted  together  for  some  few  moments, 
and  then  Tiffey  looked  out  at  the  door  and  beckoned  me  in. 

'  Oh  !  '  said  Mr.  Jorkins.  '  Mr.  Tiffey  and  myself,  Mr.  Copperfield,  are  about 
to  examine  the  desk,  the  drawers,  and  other  such  repositories  of  the  deceased  with 
the  view  of  sealing  up  his  private  papers,  and  searching  for  a  will.  There  is  no  trace 
of  any,  elsewhere.     It  may  be  as  well  for  you  to  assist  us,  if  you  please.' 

I  had  been  in  agony  to  obtain  some  knowledge  of  the  circumstances  in  which  my 
Dora  would  be  placed — as,  in  whose  guardianship,  and  so  forth — and  this  was  some- 
thing towards  it.  We  began  the  search  at  once  ;  Mr.  Jorkins  unlocking  the  drawers 
and  desks,  and  we  all  taking  out  the  papers.  The  office  papers  we  placed  on  one  side, 
and  the  private  papers  (which  were  not  numerous)  on  the  other.  We  were  very  grave  ; 
and  when  we  came  to  a  stray  seal,  or  pencil-case,  or  ring,  or  any  little  article  of  that 
kind  which  we  associated  personally  with  him,  we  spoke  very  low. 

We  had  sealed  up  several  packets ;  and  were  still  going  on  dustily  and  quietly, 
when  Mr.  Jorkins  said  to  us,  applying  exactly  the  same  words  to  his  late  partner  as 
his  late  partner  had  applied  to  him — 

'  Mr.  Spenlow  was  very  difficult  to  move  from  the  beaten  track.  You  know  what 
he  was  !     I  am  disposed  to  think  he  had  made  no  will.' 

'  Oh,  I  know  he  had  !  '    said  I. 

They  both  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

'  On  the  verj'  day  when  I  last  saw  him,'  said  I,  '  he  told  me  that  he  had,  and  that 
his  affairs  were  long  since  settled.' 

Mr.  Jorkins  and  old  Tiffey  shook  their  heads  with  one  accord. 

'  That  looks  unpromising,'  said  Tiffey. 

'  Very  unpromising,'  said  Mr.  Jorkins. 

'  Surely  you  don't  doubt— — -'  I  began. 

'  My  good  Mr.  Copperfield  !  '  said  Tiffey,  laying  his  hand  upon  my  arm,  and 
shutting  up  both  his  eyes  as  he  shook  his  head  :  '  if  you  had  been  in  the  Commons 
as  long  as  I  have,  you  would  know  that  there  is  no  subject  on  which  men  are  so 
inconsistent,  and  so  little  to  be  trusted.' 

'  Why,  bless  my  soul,  he  made  that  very  remark  !  '   I  replied  persistently. 

'  I  should  call  that  almost  final,'  observed  Tiffey.     '  My  opinion  is — no  will.' 

It  appeared  a  wonderful  thing  to  me,  but  it  turned  out  that  there  was  no  will. 
He  had  never  so  much  as  thought  of  making  one,  so  far  as  his  papers  afforded  any 
evidence  ;  for  there  was  no  kind  of  hint,  sketch,  or  memorandum,  of  any  testamentary 
intention  whatever.  What  was  scarcely  less  astonishing  to  me  was,  that  his  affairs 
were  in  a  most  disordered  state.  It  was  extremely  difficult,  I  heard,  to  make  out 
what  he  owed,  or  what  he  had  paid,  or  of  what  he  died  possessed.  It  was  considered 
likely  that  for  years  he  could  have  had  no  clear  opinion  on  these  subjects  himself. 
By  little  and  little  it  came  out,  that,  in  the  competition  on  all  points  of  appearance 
and  gentility  then  running  high  in  the  Commons,  he  had  spent  more  than  his  pro- 
fessional income,  which  was  not  a  very  large  one,  and  had  reduced  his  private  means, 
if  they  ever  had  been  great  (which  was  exceedingly  doubtful),  to  a  very  low  ebb  indeed. 
There  was  a  sale  of  the  furniture  and  lease,  at  Norwood  ;  and  Tiffey  told  me,  little 
thinking  how  interested  I  was  in  the  story,  that,  paying  all  the  just  debts  of  the 
deceased,  and  deducting  his  share  of  outstanding  bad  and  doubtful  debts  due  to  the 
firm,  he  wouldn't  give  a  thousand  pounds  for  all  the  assets  remaining. 

This  was  at  the  expiration  of  about  six  weeks.     I  had  suffered  tortures  all  the 


A  DISSOLUTION  OF  PARTNERSHIP  868 

time,  and  thouj^lit.  I  really  must  have  laid  violent  hands  upon  myself,  when  Miss  Mills 
still  reported  to  me,  that  my  broken-hearted  little  Dora  would  say  nottiing,  when  I 
was  mentioned,  but  '  Oh,  poor  papa  !  Oh,  dear  papa  !  '  Also,  that  she  had  no  other 
relations  than  two  aunts,  maiden  sisters  of  Mr.  Spenlow,  wlio  lived  at  Putney,  and 
who  had  not  held  any  other  than  chance  communication  with  their  brother  for  many 
years.  Not  that  I  hey  had  ever  quarrelled  (Miss  Mills  informed  me)  ;  but  that  having 
been,  on  the  occasion  of  Dora's  christening,  invited  to  tea,  when  they  considered 
themselves  privileged  to  be  invited  to  dinner,  they  had  expressed  their  opinion  in 
writing,  that  it  was  '  better  for  the  hajjpiness  of  all  parties  '  that  they  should  stay 
away.     Since  which  they  had  gone  their  road,  and  their  brother  had  gone  his. 

These  two  ladies  now  emerged  from  their  retirement,  and  proposed  to  take  Dora 
to  live  at  Putney.  Dora,  clinging  to  them  both,  and  weeping,  exclaimed,  '  Oh  yes, 
aunts  !  Please  take  Julia  Mills  and  me  and  Jip  to  Putney  !  '  So  they  went,  very 
soon  after  the  funeral. 

How  I  found  time  to  haunt  Putney,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  contrived, 
by  some  means  or  other,  to  prowl  about  the  neighbourhood  pretty  often.  Miss  Mills, 
for  the  more  exact  discharge  of  the  duties  of  friendship,  kept  a  journal  ;  and  she  used 
to  meet  me  sometimes,  on  the  Common,  and  read  it,  or  (if  she  had  not  time  to  do  that) 
lend  it  to  me.     How  I  treasured  up  the  entries,  of  which  I  subjoin  a  sample  ! — 

'  Monday.  My  sweet  D.  still  much  depressed.  Headache.  Called  attention  to 
.7.  as  being  beautifiilly  sleek.  D.  fondled  J.  Associations  thus  awakened,  opened 
floodgates  of  sorrow.  Rush  of  grief  admitted.  (Are  tears  the  dewdrops  of  the 
heart  ?     J.  M.) 

'  Tuesday.  D.  weak  and  nervous.  Beautiful  in  pallor.  (Do  we  not  remark 
this  in  moon  likewise  ?  J.  M.)  D.  J.  M.  and  J.  took  airing  in  carriage.  J.  looking 
out  of  window,  and  barking  violently  at  dustman,  occasioned  smile  to  overspread 
features  of  D.     (Of  such  slight  links  is  chain  of  life  composed  !     J.  M.) 

'  Wednesday.  D.  comparatively  cheerful.  Sang  to  her,  as  congenial  melody, 
Evening  Bells.  Effect  not  soothing,  but  reverse.  D.  inexpressibly  affected.  Found 
sobbing  afterwards,  in  own  room.  Quoted  verses  respecting  self  and  young  Gazelle. 
Ineffectually.  Also  referred  to  Patience  on  Monument.  (Qy.  Wiiy  on  monument  ? 
J.  M.) 

'  Thursday.  D.  Certainly  improved.  Better  night.  Slight  tinge  of  damask 
revisiting  cheek.  Resolved  to  mention  name  of  D.  C.  Introduced  same,  cautiously, 
in  course  of  airing.  D.  immediately  overcome.  "  Oh,  dear,  dear  Julia  !  Oh,  I 
have  been  a  naughty  and  undutiful  child  !  "  Soothed  and  caressed.  Drew  ideal 
picture  of  D.  C.  on  verge  of  tomb.  D.  again  overcome.  '  Oh,  what  shall  I  do,  what 
shall  I  do  ?  Oh,  take  me  somewhere !  "  Much  alarmed.  Fainting  of  D.  and  glass  of 
water  from  public-house.  (Poetical  affinity.  Chequered  sign  on  doorpost ;  chequered 
human  life.     Alas  !     J.  M.) 

'  Friday.  Day  of  incident.  Man  appears  in  kitchen,  with  blue  bag,  "  for  lady's 
boots  left  out  to  heel."  Cook  replies,  "  No  such  orders."  Man  argues  point.  Cook 
withdraws  to  inquire,  leaving  man  alone  with  J.  On  Cook's  return,  man  still  argues 
point,  but  ultimately  goes.  J.  missing.  D.  distracted.  Information  sent  to  police. 
Man  to  be  identified  by  broad  nose,  and  legs  like  balustrades  of  bridge.  Search  made 
in  every  direction.  No  J.  D.  weeping  bitterly,  and  inconsolable.  Renewed  refer- 
ence to  young  Gazelle.  Appropriate,  but  unavailing.  Towards  evening,  strange 
boy  calls.     Brought  into  parlour.     Broad  nose,  but  no  balustrades.     Says  he  wants  a 


3g4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

pound,  and  knows  a  dog.  Declines  to  explain  further,  though  much  pressed.  Pound 
being  produced  by  D.  takes  Cook  to  little  house,  where  J.  alone  tied  up  to  leg  of 
table.  Joy  of  D.  who  dances  round  J.  while  he  eats  his  supper.  Emboldened  by 
this  happy  change,  mention  D.  C.  upstairs.  D.  weeps  afresh,  cries  piteously,  "  Oh, 
don't,  don't,  don't !  It  is  so  wicked  to  think  of  anything  but  poor  papa  !  " — 
embraces  J.  and  sobs  herself  to  sleep.  (Must  not  D.  C.  confine  himself  to  the  broad 
pinions  of  time  ?     J.  M.) ' 

Miss  Mills  and  her  journal  were  my  sole  consolation  at  this  period.  To  see  her, 
who  had  seen  Dora  but  a  little  while  before — to  trace  the  initial  letter  of  Dora's  name 
through  her  sympathetic  pages — to  be  made  more  and  more  miserable  by  her — were 
my  only  comforts.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  living  in  a  palace  of  cards,  which  had 
tumbled  down,  leaving  only  Miss  Mills  and  me  among  the  ruins  ;  I  felt  as  if  some  grim 
enchanter  had  drawn  a  magic  circle  round  the  innocent  goddess  of  my  heart,  which 
nothing  indeed  but  those  same  strong  pinions,  capable  of  carrying  so  many  people 
over  so  much,  would  enable  me  to  enter  1 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 

WICKFIELD    AND    HEEP 

MY  aunt,  beginning,  I  imagine,  to  be  made  seriously  uncomfortable  by  my 
prolonged  dejection,  made  a  pretence  of  being  anxious  that  I  should 
go  to  Dover  to  see  that  all  was  working  well  at  the  cottage,  which 
was  let ;  and  to  conclude  an  agreement,  with  the  same  tenant,  for  a 
longer  term  of  occupation.  Janet  was  drafted  into  the  service  of  Mrs.  Strong,  where 
I  saw  her  every  day.  She  had  been  undecided,  on  leaving  Dover,  whether  or  no 
to  give  the  finishing  touch  to  that  renunciation  of  mankind  in  which  she  had  been 
educated,  by  marrying  a  pilot  ;  but  she  decided  against  that  venture.  Not  so  much 
for  the  sake  of  principle,  I  believe,  as  because  she  happened  not  to  like  him. 

Although  it  required  an  effort  to  leave  Miss  Mills,  I  fell  rather  willingly  into  my 
aunt's  pretence,  as  a  means  of  enabling  me  to  pass  a  few  tranquil  hours  with  Agnes. 
I  consulted  the  good  Doctor  relative  to  an  absence  of  three  days  ;  and  the  Doctor 
wishing  me  to  take  that  relaxation, — he  wished  me  to  take  more  ;  but  my  energy 
could  not  bear  that, — I  made  up  my  mind  to  go. 

As  to  the  Commons,  I  had  no  great  occasion  to  be  particular  about  my  duties  in 
that  quarter.  To  say  the  truth,  we  were  getting  in  no  very  good  odour  among  the 
tip-top  proctors,  and  were  rapidly  sliding  down  to  but  a  doubtful  position.  The 
business  had  been  indifferent  under  Mr.  Jorkins,  before  Mr.  Spenlow's  time  ;  and 
although  it  had  been  quickened  by  the  infusion  of  new  blood,  and  by  the  display 
which  Mr.  Spenlow  made,  still  it  was  not  established  on  a  sufficiently  strong  basis  to 
bear,  without  being  shaken,  such  a  blow  as  the  sudden  loss  of  its  active  manager. 
It  fell  off  very  much.  Mr.  Jorkins,  notwithstanding  his  reputation  in  the  firm,  was 
an  easy-going,  incapable  sort  of  man,  whose  reputation  out  of  doors  was  not  calculated 
to  back  it  up.  I  was  turned  over  to  him  now,  and  when  I  saw  him  take  his  snuff  and 
let  the  business  go,  I  regretted  my  aunt's  thousand  pounds  more  than  ever. 

But  this  was  not  the  worst  of  it.     There  were  a  number  of  hangers-on  and  out- 


WICKI  Ii:i.I)  AND  HEI:P  :u;5 

siders  about  the  Commons,  who,  without  being  proctors  themselves,  dabbled  in 
common-form  business,  and  f,'C)t  it  done  by  real  proctors,  wiio  lent  their  names  in 
consideration  of  a  share  in  the  spoil  ; — and  there  were  a  f^'ood  many  of  these  too. 
As  our  house  now  wanted  business  on  any  terms,  we  joined  this  noble  band  ;  and 
threw  out  lures  to  the  hanj^ers-on  and  outsiders,  to  briri^,'  their  business  to  us. 
Marriage  licences  and  small  probates  were  what  we  all  looked  for,  and  what  paid  us 
best ;  and  the  [competition  for  these  ran  very  high  indeed.  Kidnappers  and 
inveiglers  were  planted  in  all  the  avenues  of  entrance  to  the  Commons,  with  instruc- 
tions to  do  their  utmost  to  cut  off  all  persons  in  mourning,  and  all  gentlemen  with 
anything  bashful  in  their  aj)pearnnce,  and  entice  them  to  the  oilices  in  which  their 
respective  employers  were  interested  ;  which  instructions  were  so  well  observed, 
that  I  myself,  before  I  was  known  by  sight,  was  twice  hustled  into  the  f)remises  of  our 
principal  opponent.  The  conflicting  interests  of  these  touting  gentlemen  being  of  a 
nature  to  irritate  their  feelings,  personal  collisions  took  place  ;  and  the  Commons 
was  even  scandalised  by  our  princijjal  invcigler  (who  had  formerly  been  in  the  wine 
trade,  and  afterwards  in  the  sworn  brokery  line)  walking  about  for  some  days  with  a 
black  eye.  Any  one  of  these  scouts  used  to  think  nothing  of  politely  assisting  an  old 
lady  in  black  out  of  a  vehicle,  killing  any  proctor  whom  she  iiujuired  for,  representing 
his  employer  as  the  lawful  successor  and  representative  of  that  proctor,  and  bearing 
the  old  lady  off  (sometimes  greatly  affected)  to  his  employer's  office.  Many  captives 
were  brought  to  me  in  this  way.  As  to  marriage  licences,  the  competition  rose  to 
such  a  pitch,  that  a  shy  gentleman  in  want  of  one,  had  nothing  to  do  but  submit 
himself  to  the  first  inveigler,  or  be  fought  for,  and  become  the  prey  of  the  strongest. 
One  of  our  clerks,  who  was  an  outsider,  used,  in  the  height  of  this  contest,  to  sit  with 
his  hat  on,  that  he  might  be  ready  to  rush  out  and  swear  before  a  surrogate  any  victim 
who  was  brought  in.  The  system  of  inveigling  continues,  I  believe,  to  this  day.  The 
last  time  I  was  in  the  Commons,  a  civil  able-bodied  person  in  a  white  apron  pounced 
out  upon  me  from  a  doorway,  and  whispering  the  word  '  Marriage-licence  '  in  my  ear, 
was  with  great  difficulty  prevented  from  taking  me  up  in  his  arms  and  lifting  me  into 
a  proctor's. 

From  this  digression,  let  me  proceed  to  Dover. 

I  found  everything  in  a  satisfactory  state  at  the  cottage  ;  and  was  enabled  to 
gratify  my  aunt  exceedingly  by  reporting  that  the  tenant  inherited  her  feud,  and 
waged  incessant  war  against  donkeys.  Having  settled  the  little  business  I  had  to 
transact  there,  and  slept  there  one  night,  I  walked  on  to  Canterbiu-y  early  in  the 
morning.  It  was  now  winter  again  ;  and  the  fresh,  cold  windy  day,  and  the  sweeping 
downland,  brightened  up  my  hopes  a  little. 

Coming  into  Canterbury,  I  loitered  through  the  old  streets  with  a  sober  pleasure 
that  calmed  my  spirits,  and  eased  my  heart.  There  were  the  old  signs,  the  old  names 
over  the  shops,  the  old  people  serving  in  them.  It  appeared  so  long,  since  I  had  been 
a  schoolboy  there,  that  I  wondered  the  place  was  so  little  changed,  until  I  reflected 
how  little  I  was  changed  myself.  Strange  to  say,  that  quiet  influence  which  was 
inseparable  in  my  mind  from  Agnes,  seemed  to  pervade  even  the  city  where  she  dwelt. 
The  venerable  cathedral  towers,  and  the  old  jackdaws  and  rooks  whose  airy  voices 
made  them  more  retired  than  perfect  silence  would  have  done ;  the  battered  gate- 
ways, once  stuck  full  with  statues,  long  thi-own  down,  and  crumbled  away,  like  the 
reverential  pilgrims  who  had  gazed  upon  them  ;  the  still  nooks,  where  the  ivied 
growth  of  centuries  crept  over  gabled  ends  and  ruined  walls  ;    the  ancient  houses, 


366  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

the  pastoral  landscape  of  field,  orchard,  and  garden  ;  everywhere — on  everything — 
I  felt  the  same  serener  air,  the  same  calm,  thoughtful,  softening  spirit. 

Arrived  at  Mr.  Wickfield's  house,  I  found,  in  the  little  lower  room  on  the  ground- 
floor,  where  Uriah  Heep  had  been  of  old  accustomed  to  sit,  Mr.  Micawber  plying  his 
pen  with  great  assiduity.  He  was  dressed  in  a  legal-looking  suit  of  black,  and 
loomed,  burly  and  large,  in  that  small  office. 

Mr.  Micawber  was  extremely  glad  to  see  me,  but  a  little  confused  too.  He  would 
have  conducted  me  immediately  into  the  presence  of  Uriah,  but  I  declined. 

'  I  know  the  house  of  old,  you  recollect,'  said  I,  '  and  will  find  my  way  upstairs. 
How  do  you  like  the  law,  Mr.  Micawber  ?  ' 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  he  replied.  '  To  a  man  j^ossessed  of  the  higher  imagina- 
tive powers,  the  objection  to  legal  studies  is  the  amount  of  detail  which  they  involve. 
Even  in  our  professional  correspondence,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  glancing  at  some  letters 
he  was  writing,  '  the  mind  is  not  at  liberty  to  soar  to  any  exalted  form  of  expression. 
Still,  it  is  a  great  pursuit.     A  great  pursuit  !  ' 

He  then  told  me  that  he  had  become  the  tenant  of  Uriah  Heep's  old  house  ;  and 
that  Mrs.  Micawber  would  be  delighted  to  receive  me,  once  more,  under  her  own  roof. 

'  It  is  humble,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  to  quote  a  favourite  expression  of  my 
friend  Heep  ;  but  it  may  prove  the  stepping-stone  to  more  ambitious  domiciliary 
accommodati  on . ' 

I  asked  him  whether  he  had  reason,  so  far,  to  be  satisfied  with  his  friend  Heep's 
treatment  of  him  ?  He  got  up  to  ascertain  if  the  door  were  close  shut,  before  he 
replied,  in  a  lower  voice — 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,  a  man  who  labours  under  the  pressure  of  pecuniary 
embarrassments,  is,  with  the  generality  of  people,  at  a  disadvantage.  That  dis- 
advantage is  not  diminished,  when  that  pressure  necessitates  the  drawing  of 
stipendiary  emoluments,  before  those  emoluments  are  strictly  due  and  payable. 
All  I  can  say  is,  that  my  friend  Heep  has  responded  to  appeals  to  which  I  need 
not  more  particularly  refer,  in  a  manner  calculated  to  redound  equally  to  the  honour 
of  his  head,  and  of  his  heart.' 

'  I  should  not  have  supposed  him  to  be  very  free  with  his  money  either,'  T 
observed. 

'  Pardon  me  !  '  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  an  air  of  constraint,  '  I  sjieak  of  my 
friend  Heep  as  I  have  experience.' 

'  I  am  glad  your  experience  is  so  favourable,'  I  returned. 

'  You  are  very  obliging,  my  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber ;  and  hummed 
a  tune. 

'  Do  you  see  much  of  Mr.  Wickfield  ?  '   I  asked,  to  change  the  subject. 

'  Not  much,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  slightingly.  '  Mr.  Wickfield  is,  I  dare  say,  a 
man  of  very  excellent  intentions  ;   but  he  is — in  short,  he  is  obsolete.' 

'  I  am  afraid  his  partner  seeks  to  make  him  so,'  said  I. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield  !  '  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  after  some  uneasy  evolutions 
on  his  stool,  '  allow  me  to  offer  a  remark  !  I  am  here,  in  a  capacity  of  confidence. 
I  am  here,  in  a  position  of  trust.  The  discussion  of  some  topics,  even  with  Mrs. 
Micawber  herself  (so  long  the  partner  of  my  various  vicissitudes,  and  a  woman  of  a 
remarkable  lucidity  of  intellect),  is,  I  am  led  to  consider,  incompatible  with  the 
functions  now  devolving  on  me.  I  would  therefore  take  the  liberty  of  suggesting 
that  in  our  friendlv  intercourse — which  I  trust  will  never  be  disturbed  ! — we  draw  a 


WrCKF^TELD  AND  IIEKP  867 

line.  On  one  side  of  this  line,'  said  Mr.  Mioawhcr,  rejjieseiiting  it  on  the  desk  with  the 
ofllce  ruler,  '  is  the  whole  range  of  the  human  intellect,  with  a  trifling  exception  ;  on 
the  other,  is  that  exception  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  affairs  oi  Messrs.  Wickfield  and  Ileep, 
with  all  belonging  and  appertaining  thereunto.  I  trust  I  give  no  offence  to  the 
companion  of  my  youth,  in  submitting  this  proposition  to  his  cooler  judgment  '! ' 

Though  I  saw  an  uneasy  change  in  Mr.  Micawber,  which  sat  tightly  on  him,  as 
if  his  new  duties  were  a  misfit,  I  felt  I  had  no  right  to  be  offended.  My  telling  him 
so,  appeared  to  relieve  him  ;    and  he  shook  hands  with  me. 

'  I  am  charmed,  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  let  me  assure  you,  with  Miss 
Wickfield.  She  is  a  very  superior  young  lady,  of  very  remarkable  attractions,  graces, 
and  virtues.  Upon  my  honour,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  indefinitel}'  kissing  his  hand 
and  bowing  his  genteelest  air,  '  I  do  homage  to  Miss  Wickfield  !     Hem  !  ' 

'  I  am  glad  of  that,  at  least,'  said  I. 

'  If  you  had  not  assured  us,  my  dear  Copperfield,  on  the  occasion  of  that  agreeable 
afternoon  we  had  the  happiness  of  passing  with  you,  that  D.  was  your  favourite  letter,' 
said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  I  should  unquestionably  have  supposed  that  A.  had  been  so.' 

We  have  all  some  experience  of  a  feeling,  that  comes  over  us  occasionally,  of 
what  we  are  saying  and  doing  having  been  said  and  done  before,  in  a  remote  time 
— of  our  having  been  surrounded,  dim  ages  ago,  by  the  same  faces,  objects,  and 
circumstances — of  our  knowing  perfectly  what  will  be  said  next,  as  if  we  suddenly 
remembered  it  !  I  never  had  this  mysterious  impression  more  strongly  in  my  life, 
than  before  he  uttered  those  words. 

I  took  my  leave  of  Mr.  Micawber,  for  the  time,  charging  him  with  my  best  remem- 
brances to  all  at  home.  As  I  left  him,  resuming  his  stool  and  his  pen,  and  rolling 
his  head  in  his  stock,  to  get  it  into  easier  writing  order,  I  clearly  perceived  that  there 
was  something  interposed  between  him  and  me,  since  he  had  come  into  his  new 
functions,  which  prevented  our  getting  at  each  other  as  we  used  to  do,  and  quite 
altered  the  character  of  our  intercourse. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  quaint  old  drawing-room,  though  it  presented  tokens  of 
Mrs.  Heep's  whereabout.  I  looked  into  the  room  still  belonging  to  Agnes,  and  saw 
her  sitting  by  the  fire,  at  a  pretty  old-fashioned  desk  she  had,  writing. 

My  darkening  the  light  made  her  look  up.  What  a  pleasure  to  be  the  cause  of 
that  bright  change  in  her  attentive  face,  and  the  object  of  that  sweet  regard  and 
welcome  ! 

'  Ah,  Agnes  !  '  said  I,  when  we  were  sitting  together,  side  by  side  ;  '  I  have  missed 
you  so  much,  lately  !  ' 

'  Indeed  ?  '    she  replied.     '  Again  !     And  so  soon  ?  ' 

I  shook  my  head. 

'  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Agnes  ;  I  seem  to  want  some  faculty  of  mind  that  I 
ought  to  have.  You  were  so  much  in  the  habit  of  thinking  for  me,  in  the  happy 
old  days  here,  and  I  came  so  naturally  to  you  for  counsel  and  support,  that  I  really 
think  I  have  missed  acquiring  it  ?  ' 

'  And  what  is  it  ?  '    said  Agnes,  cheerfully. 

'  I  don't  know  what  to  call  it,'  I  replied.     '  I  think  I  am  earnest  and  persevering  ?  ' 

'  I  am  sure  of  it,'  said  Agnes. 

'  And  patient,  Agnes  ?  '    I  inquired,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

'  Yes,'  returned  Agnes,  laughing.     '  Pretty  well.' 

'  And  yet,'  said  I,  '  I  get  so  miserable  and  worried,  and  am  so  unsteady  and 


368  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

irresolute  in  my  power  of  assuring  myself,  that  I  know  I  must  want — shall  I  call  it — 
reliance,  of  some  kind  ?  ' 

'  Call  it  so,  if  you  will,'  said  Agnes. 

'  Well,'  I  returned.  '  See  here !  You  come  to  London,  I  rely  on  you,  and  I 
have  an  object  and  a  course  at  once.  I  am  driven  out  of  it,  I  come  here,  and  in  a 
moment  I  feel  an  altered  person.  The  circumstances  that  distressed  me  are  not 
changed,  since  I  came  into  this  room  ;  but  an  influence  comes  over  me  in  that  short 
interval  that  alters  me,  oh,  how  much  for  the  better  !  What  is  it  ?  What  is  your 
secret,  Agnes  ?  ' 

Her  head  was  bent  down,  looking  at  the  fire. 

'  It 's  the  old  story,'  said  I.  '  Don't  laugh,  when  I  say  it  was  always  the  same 
in  little  things  as  it  is  in  greater  ones.  My  old  troubles  were  nonsense,  and  now  they 
are  serious  ;   but  whenever  I  have  gone  away  from  my  adopted  sister ' 

Agnes  looked  up — with  such  a  heavenly  face  ! — and  gave  me  her  hand,  which 
I  kissed. 

'  Whenever  I  have  not  had  you,  Agnes,  to  advise  and  approve  in  the  beginning, 
I  have  seemed  to  go  wild,  and  to  get  into  all  sorts  of  difficulty.  When  I  have  come 
to  you,  at  last  (as  I  have  always  done),  I  have  come  to  peace  and  happiness.  I  come 
home,  now,  like  a  tired  traveller,  and  find  such  a  blessed  sense  of  rest  !  ' 

I  felt  so  deeply  what  I  said,  it  affected  me  so  sincerely,  that  my  voice  failed,  and 
I  covered  my  face  with  my  hand,  and  broke  into  tears.  I  write  the  truth.  Whatever 
contradictions  and  inconsistencies  there  were  within  me,  as  there  are  within  so  many 
of  us  ;  whatever  might  have  been  so  different,  and  so  much  better  ;  whatever  I  had 
done,  in  which  I  had  perversely  wandered  away  from  the  voice  of  my  own  heart ; 
I  knew  nothing  of.  I  only  knew  that  I  was  fervently  in  earnest,  when  I  felt  the 
rest  and  peace  of  having  Agnes  near  me. 

In  her  placid  sisterly  manner  ;  with  her  beaming  eyes  ;  with  her  tender  voice  ; 
and  with  that  sweet  composure,  which  had  long  ago  made  the  house  that  held  her 
quite  a  sacred  place  to  me  ;  she  soon  won  me  from  this  weakness,  and  led  me  on  to 
tell  all  that  had  happened  since  our  last  meeting. 

'  And  there  is  not  another  word  to  tell,  Agnes,'  said  I,  when  I  had  made  an  end 
of  my  confidence.     '  Now,  my  reliance  is  on  you.' 

'  But  it  must  not  be  on  me,  Trotwood,'  returned  Agnes,  with  a  pleasant  smile. 
'  It  must  be  on  some  one  else.' 

'  On  Dora  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Assuredly.' 

'  Why,  I  have  not  mentioned,  Agnes,'  said  I,  a  little  embarrassed,  '  that  Dora 
is  rather  difficult  to — I  would  not,  for  the  world,  say,  to  rely  upon,  because  she  is  the 
soul  of  purity  and  truth— but  rather  difficult  to — I  hardly  know  how  to  express  it, 
really,  Agnes.  She  is  a  timid  little  thing,  and  easily  disturbed  and  frightened.  Some 
time  ago,  before  her  father's  death,  when  I  thought  it  right  to  mention  to  her — but 
I  '11  tell  you,  if  you  will  bear  with  me,  how  it  was.' 

Accordingly,  I  told  Agnes  about  my  declaration  of  poverty,  about  the  Cookery 
Book,  the  housekeeping  accounts,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

'  Oh,  Trotwood  !  '  she  remonstrated,  with  a  smile.  '  Just  your  old  headlong 
way  !  You  might  have  been  in  earnest  in  striving  to  get  on  in  the  world,  without 
being  so  very  sudden  with  a  timid,  loving,  inexperienced  girl.     Poor  Dora  !  ' 

I  never  heard  such  sweet  forbearing  kindness  expressed  in  a  voice,  as  she  expressed 


WICKIIKFJ)  AND  JfEET  309 

in  making  this  reply.  It  was  as  if  I  hiid  seen  her  .Kliiiiiiiigiy  and  tenderly  embracing 
Dora,  and  ta(;itly  reproving  me,  by  her  considerate  f)roteetion,  for  my  hot  haste  in 
fluttering  that  Httic  lieart.  It  was  as  if  I  had  seen  Dora,  in  ail  her  fascinating 
artlessness,  caressing  Agnes,  and  thaniting  her,  and  eoaxingly  appealing  against 
me,  and  loving  me  with  all  iior  childish  innocence. 

I  felt  so  grateful  to  Agnes,  and  admired  her  so  !  I  saw  those  two  together, 
in  a  bright  perspective,  such  well-associated  friends,  each  adorning  the  other  so 
much  ! 

'  What  ought  I  to  do  then,  Agnes  ?  '  I  intjuired,  after  looking  at  the  fire  a  little 
while.     '  What  would  it  be  right  to  do  ?  ' 

'  I  think,'  said  Agnes,  '  that  the  honourable  course  to  take,  would  be  to  write  to 
those  two  ladies.     Don't  you  think  that  any  secret  course  is  an  unworthy  one  ?  ' 
'  Yes.     If  you  think  so,'  said  I. 

'  I  am  j)oorly  qualified  to  judge  of  such  matters,'  replied  Agnes,  with  a  modest 
hesitation,  '  but  I  certainly  feel — in  short,  I  feel  that  your  being  secret  and  clandestine 
is  not  being  like  yourself.' 

'  Like  myself,  in  the  too  high  opinion  you  have  of  me,  Agnes,  I  am  afraid,'  said  I. 
'  Like  yourself,  in  the  candour  of  your  nature,'  she  returned  ;  '  and  therefore  I 
would  write  to  those  two  ladies.  I  would  relate,  as  plainly  and  as  opcnij'  as  possible, 
all  that  has  taken  place  ;  and  I  would  ask  their  permission  to  visit  sometimes,  at  their 
house.  Considering  that  you  are  young,  and  striving  for  a  place  in  life,  I  think  it 
would  be  well  to  say  that  you  would  readily  abide  by  any  conditions  they  might  impose 
upon  you.  I  would  entreat  them  not  to  dismiss  your  request,  without  a  reference  to 
Dora  ;  and  to  discuss  it  with  her  when  they  should  think  the  time  suitable.  I  would 
not  be  too  vehement,'  said  Agnes,  gently,  '  or  propose  too  much.  I  would  trust  to 
my  fidelity  and  perseverance — and  to  Dora.' 

'  But  if  they  were  to  frighten  Dora  again,  Agnes,  by  speaking  to  her,'  said  I. 
'  And  if  Dora  were  to  cry,  and  say  nothing  about  me  !  ' 

'  Is  that  likely  ?  '   inquired  Agnes,  with  the  same  sweet  consideration  in  her  face. 
'  God  bless  her,  she  is  as  easily  scared  as  a  bird,'  said  I.     '  It  might  be  !     Or  if 
the  two  Miss  Spenlows  (elderly  ladies  of  that  sort  are  odd  characters   sometimes) 
should  not  be  likely  persons  to  address  in  that  way  !  ' 

'  I  don't  think,  Trotwood,'  returned  Agnes,  raising  her  soft  eyes  to  mine,  '  I  would 
consider  that.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  only  to  consider  whether  it  is  right  to  do 
this  ;    and,  if  it  is,  to  do  it.' 

I  had  no  longer  any  doubt  on  tlie  subject.  With  a  lightened  heart,  though  with 
a  profound  sense  of  the  weighty  importance  of  my  task,  I  devoted  the  whole  after- 
noon to  the  composition  of  the  draft  of  this  letter ;  for  which  great  purpose,  Agnes 
relinquished  her  desk  to  me.  But  first  I  went  downstairs  to  see  Mr.  Wickfield  and 
Uriah  Heep. 

I  found  Uriah  in  possession  of  a  new,  plaster-smelling  office,  built  out  in  the 
garden  ;  looking  extraordinarily  mean,  in  the  midst  of  a  quantity  of  books  and  papers. 
He  received  me  in  his  usual  fawning  way,  and  pretended  not  to  have  heard  of  my 
arrival  from  Mr.  IVIioawber  ;  a  pretence  I  took  the  liberty  of  disbelieving.  lie  accom- 
panied me  into  j\lr.  Wickfield's  room,  which  was  the  shadow  of  its  former  self — ha\'ing 
been  divested  of  a  variety  of  conveniences,  for  the  accommodation  of  the  new  partner 
— and  stood  before  the  fire,  warming  his  back,  and  shaving  his  chin  with  his  bony 
hand,  while  ^Ir.  Wickfield  and  I  exchanged  greetings. 


370  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  stay  with  us,  Trotwood,  while  you  remain  in  Canterbury  ?  '  said  Mr. 
Wickfield,  not  without  a  glance  at  Uriah  for  his  approval. 

'  Is  there  room  for  me  ?  '    said  I. 

'  I  am  sure,  Master  Copperfield — I  should  say  Mister,  but  the  other  comes  so 
natural,'  said  Uriah, — '  I  would  turn  out  of  your  old  room  with  pleasure,  if  it  would 
be  agreeable.' 

'  No,  no,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  '  Why  should  you  be  inconvenienced  ?  There  's 
another  room.     There  's  another  room.' 

'  Oh,  but  you  know,'  returned  Uriah,  with  a  grin,  '  I  should  really  be  delighted  ! ' 

To  cut  the  matter  short,  I  said  I  would  have  the  other  room  or  none  at  all ;  so 
it  was  settled  that  I  should  have  the  other  room  :  and,  taking  my  leave  of  the  firm 
until  dinner,  I  went  upstairs  again. 

I  had  hoped  to  have  no  other  companion  than  Agnes.  But  Mrs.  Heep  had  asked 
permission  to  bring  herself  and  her  knitting  near  the  fire,  in  that  room  ;  on  pretence 
of  its  having  an  aspect  more  favourable  for  her  rheumatics,  as  the  wind  then  was, 
than  the  drawing-room  or  dining-parlour.  Though  I  could  almost  have  consigned 
her  to  the  mercies  of  the  wind  on  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  the  cathedral,  without 
remorse,  I  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  gave  her  a  friendly  salutation. 

'  I  'm  umbly  thankful  to  you,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Heep,  in  acknowledgment  of  my 
inquiries  concerning  her  health,  '  but  I  'm  only  pretty  well.  I  haven't  much  to  boast 
of.  If  I  could  see  my  Uriah  well  settled  in  life,  I  couldn't  expect  much  more,  I  think. 
How  do  you  think  my  Ury  looking,  sir  ?  ' 

I  thought  him  looking  as  villainous  as  ever,  and  I  replied  that  I  saw  no  change 
in  him. 

'  Oh,  don't  you  think  he  's  changed  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Heep.  '  There  I  must  umbly 
beg  leave  to  differ  from  you.     Don't  you  see  a  thinness  in  him  ?  ' 

'  Not  more  than  usual,'  I  replied. 

'  Don't  you  though  !  '  said  Mrs.  Heep.  '  But  you  don't  take  notice  of  him  with 
a  mother's  eye  !  ' 

His  mother's  eye  was  an  evil  eye  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  I  thought  as  it  met 
mine,  howsoever  affectionate  to  him  ;  and  I  believe  she  and  her  son  were  devoted  to 
one  another.     It  passed  me,  and  went  on  to  Agnes. 

'  Don't  you  see  a  wasting  and  a  wearing  in  him,  Miss  Wickfield  ?  '  inquired 
Mrs.  Heep. 

'  No,'  said  Agnes,  quietly  pursuing  the  work  on  which  she  was  engaged.  '  You 
are  too  solicitous  about  him.     He  is  very  well.' 

Mrs.  Heep,  with  a  prodigious  sniff,  resumed  her  knitting. 

She  never  left  off,  or  left  us  for  a  moment.  I  had  arrived  early  in  the  day,  and 
we  had  still  three  or  four  hours  before  dinner  ;  but  she  sat  there,  plying  her  knitting- 
needles  as  monotonously  as  an  hour-glass  might  have  poured  out  its  sands.  She  sat 
on  one  side  of  the  fire  ;  I  sat  at  the  desk  in  front  of  it ;  a  little  beyond  me,  on  the 
other  side,  sat  Agnes.  Whensoever,  slowly  pondering  over  my  letter,  I  lifted  up  my 
eyes,  and  meeting  the  thoughtful  face  of  Agnes,  saw  it  clear,  and  beam  encouragement 
upon  me,  with  its  own  angelic  expression,  I  was  conscious  presently  of  the  evil  eye 
passing  me,  and  going  on  to  her,  and  coming  back  to  me  again,  and  dropping  furtively 
upon  the  knitting.  What  the  knitting  was,  I  don't  know,  not  being  learned  in  that 
art ;  but  it  looked  like  a  net ;  and  as  she  worked  away  with  those  Chinese  chop- 
sticks of  knitting-needles,  she  showed  in  the  firelight  like  an  ill-looking  enchantress, 


WTCKFTELD  AND  nEEP  871 

baulked  as  yet  by  the  radiant  goodness  opposite,  but  getting  ready  for  a  cast  of  her 
net  by  and  by. 

At  dinner  she  maintained  her  watch,  with  tlic  same  unwinking  eyes.  After 
dinner,  her  son  took  his  turn  ;  and  when  Mr.  Wickfieid,  himself,  and  I  were  left  alone 
together,  leered  at  me,  and  writhed  until  I  could  hardly  l)ear  it.  In  the  drawing- 
room,  there  was  the  mother  knitting  and  watching  again.  All  the  time  that  Agnes 
sang  and  played,  the  mother  sat  at  the  piano.  Once  she  asked  for  a  particular 
ballad,  which  she  said  her  Ury  (who  was  yawning  in  a  great  chair)  doted  on  ;  and  at 
intervals  she  looked  round  at  him,  and  reported  to  Agnes  that  he  was  in  raptures 
with  the  music.  But  she  hardly  ever  spoke — I  question  if  she  ever  did — without 
making  some  mention  of  him.  It  was  evident  to  me  that  this  was  the  duty  assigned 
to  her. 

This  lasted  until  bedtime.  To  have  seen  the  mother  and  son,  like  two  great  bats 
hanging  over  the  whole  house,  and  darkening  it  with  their  ugly  forms,  made  me  so 
uncomfortable,  that  I  would  rather  have  remained  downstairs,  knitting  and  all,  than 
gone  to  bed.  I  hardly  got  any  sleep.  Next  day  the  knitting  and  watching  began 
again,  and  lasted  all  day. 

I  had  not  an  opportimity  of  speaking  to  Agnes,  for  ten  minutes.  I  could  barely 
show  her  my  letter.  I  proposed  to  her  to  walk  out  with  me  ;  but  Mrs.  Heep  repeatedly 
complaining  that  she  was  worse,  Agnes  charitably  remained  within,  to  bear  her 
company.  Towards  the  twilight  I  went  out  by  myself,  musing  on  what  I  ought  to 
do,  and  whether  I  was  justified  in  withholding  from  Agnes,  any  longer,  what  Uriah 
Heep  had  told  me  in  London  :   for  that  began  to  trouble  me  again,  very  much. 

I  had  not  walked  out  far  enough  to  be  quite  clear  of  the  town,  upon  the  Ramsgate 
road,  where  there  was  a  good  path,  when  I  was  hailed,  through  the  dust,  by  somebody 
behind  me.  The  shambling  figure,  and  the  scanty  great-coat,  were  not  to  be  mis- 
taken.    I  stopped,  and  Uriah  Heep  came  up. 

'  Well  ?  '    said  I. 

'  How  fast  you  walk  !  '  said  he.  '  My  legs  are  pretty  long,  but  you  've  given 
'em  quite  a  job.' 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?  '    said  I. 

'  I  am  coming  with  you,  Master  Copperfield,  if  you  '11  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  a 
walk  with  an  old  acquaintance.'  Saying  this,  with  a  jerk  of  his  body,  which  might 
have  been  either  propitiatory  or  derisive,  he  fell  into  step  beside  me. 

'  Uriah,'  said  I,  as  civilly  as  I  could,  after  a  silence. 

'  Master  Copperfield  !  '    said  Uriah. 

'  To  tell  you  the  truth  (at  which  you  will  not  be  offended),  I  came  out  to  walk 
alone,  because  I  have  had  so  much  company.' 

He  looked  at  me  sideways,  and  said  with  his  hardest  grin — '  You  mean 
mother.' 

'  ^Vhy  yes,  I  do,'  said  I. 

'  Ah  !  But  you  know  we  're  so  very  umble,'  he  returned.  '  And  having  such  a 
knowledge  of  our  own  umbleness,  we  must  really  take  care  that  we  're  not  pushed  to 
the  wall  by  them  as  isn't  umble.     All  stratagems  are  fair  in  love,  sir.' 

Raising  his  great  hands  until  they  touched  his  chin,  he  rubbed  them  softly,  and 
softly  chuckled  ;  looking  as  like  a  malevolent  baboon,  I  thought,  as  anj-thing  human 
could  look. 

'  You  see,'  he  said,  still  hugging  himself  in  that  unpleasant  way,  and  shaking  his 


872  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

head  at  me,  '  you  're  quite  a  dangerous  rival,  Master  Copperfield.     You  always  was, 
you  know.' 

'  Do  you  set  a  watch  upon  Miss  Wicfikeld,  and  make  her  home  no  home,  because 
of  me  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Oh  !   Master  Copperfield  !     Those  are  very  arsh  words,'  he  replied. 

'  Put  my  meaning  into  any  words  you  like,'  said  I.  '  You  know  what  it  is, 
Uriah,  as  well  as  I  do.' 

'  Oh  no  !  You  must  put  it  into  words,'  he  said.  '  Oh,  really  !  I  ^couldn't 
myself.' 

'  Do  you  suppose,'  said  I,  constraining  myself  to  be  very  temperate  and  quiet 
with  him,  on  account  of  Agnes,  '  that  I  regard  Miss  Wickfield  otherwise  than  as  a  very 
dear  sister  ?  ' 

'  Well,  Master  Copperfield,'  he  replied,  '  you  perceive  I  am  not  bound  to  answer 
that  question.     You  may  not,  you  know.     But  then,  you  see,  you  may  !  ' 

Anything  to  equal  the  low  cunning  of  his  visage,  and  of  his  shadowless  eyes, 
without  the  ghost  of  an  eye-lash,  I  never  saw. 

'  Come  then  !  '    said  I.     '  For  the  sake  of  Miss  Wickfield ' 

'  My  Agnes  !  '    he  exclaimed,  with  a  sickly,  angular  contortion  of  himself. 
'  Would  you  be  so  good  as  call  her  Agnes,  Master  Copperfield  ?  ' 

'  For  the  sake  of  Agnes  Wickfield — Heaven  bless  her  !  ' 

'  Thank  you  for  that  blessing.  Master  Copperfield  !  '   he  interposed. 

'  I  will  tell  you  what  I  should,  under  any  other  circumstances,  as  soon  have 
thought  of  telling  to — Jack  Ketch.' 

'  To  who,  sir  ?  '  said  Uriah,  stretching  out  his  neck,  and  shading  his  ear  with 
his  hand. 

'  To  the  hangman,'  I  returned.  '  The  most  unlikely  person  I  could  think  of,' — 
though  his  own  face  had  suggested  the  allusion  quite  as  a  natural  sequence.  '  I  am 
engaged  to  another  young  lady.     I  hope  that  contents  you.' 

'  Upon  your  soul  ?  '    said  Uriah. 

I  was  about  indignantly  to  give  my  assertion  the  confirmation  he  required,  when 
he  caught  hold  of  my  hand,  and  gave  it  a  squeeze. 

'  Oh,  Master  Copperfield,'  he  said.  '  If  you  had  only  had  the  condescension  to 
return  my  confidence  when  I  poured  out  the  fulness  of  my  art,  the  night  I  put  you 
so  much  out  of  the  way  by  sleeping  before  your  sitting-room  fire,  I  never  should  have 
doubted  you.  As  it  is,  I  'm  sure  I  '11  take  off  mother  directly,  and  only  too  appy. 
I  know  you  '11  excuse  the  precautions  of  affection,  won't  you  ?  What  a  pity,  Master 
Copperfield,  that  you  didn't  condescend  to  return  my  confidence  !  I  'm  sure  I  gave 
you  every  opportunity.  But  you  never  have  condescended  to  me,  as  much  as  I  could 
have  wished.     I  know  you  have  never  liked  me,  as  I  have  liked  you  !  ' 

All  this  time  he  was  squeezing  my  hand  with  his  damp  fishy  fingers,  while  I  made 
every  effort  I  decently  could  to  get  it  away.  But  I  was  quite  unsuccessful.  He  drew 
it  under  the  sleeve  of  his  mulberry-coloured  great-coat,  and  I  walked  on,  almost  upon 
compulsion,  arm-in-arm  with  him. 

'  Shall  we  turn  ?  '  said  Uriah,  by  and  by  wheeling  me  face  about  towards  the 
town,  on  which  the  early  moon  was  now  shining,  silvering  the  distant  windows. 

'  Before  we  leave  the  subject,  you  ought  to  understand,'  said  I,  breaking  a  pretty 
long  silence,  '  that  I  believe  Agnes  Wickfield  to  be  as  far  above  you,  and  as  far  removed 
from  all  your  aspirations,  as  that  moon  herself  !  ' 


wj(jkfii:li)  and  heep  sts 

'  Pcacofiil  !  Ain't  slic  !  '  said  Uiiuli.  '  Very  !  Now  confess,  Master  Copper- 
field,  that  you  haven't  liked  me  quite  as  I  have  liked  you.  Ail  nUmf^  you  've  thought 
me  too  umhie  now,  I  shouldn't  wonder  ?  ' 

'  I  am  not  fond  of  professions  of  humility,'  I  returned,  '  or  professions  of  anything 
else.' 

'There  now!'  said  Uriah,  looking  llabhy  and  lead-coloured  in  the  moonlight. 
'Didn't  I  know  it.  But  how  little  you  think  of  llic  lif^'lilful  iimhleness  of  a  person 
in  my  station,  Master  Copperfield  !  Father  and  me  was  holh  brought  up  at  a 
foundation  school  for  hoys  ;  and  mother,  she  was  likewise  brought  up  at  a  public, 
sort  of  charitable,  establishment.  They  taught  us  all  a  deal  of  umbleness — not  much 
else  that  I  know  of,  from  morning  to  night.  We  was  to  be  umble  to  this  person,  and 
umble  to  that ;  and  to  pull  off  our  caps  here,  and  to  make  bows  there  ;  and  always 
to  know  our  place,  and  abase  ourselves  before  our  betters.  And  we  had  such  a  lot  of 
betters  1  Father  got  the  monitor-medal  by  being  umble.  So  did  I.  Father  got  made 
a  sexton  by  being  umble.  He  had  the  character,  among  the  gentlefolks,  of  being 
such  a  well-behaved  man,  that  they  were  determined  to  bring  him  in.  "  Be  umble, 
Uriah,"  says  father  to  me,  "  and  you  '11  get  on.  It  was  what  was  always  being  dinned 
into  you  and  me  at  school  ;  it  's  what  goes  down  best.  Be  umble,"  says  father,  "  and 
you  '11  do  I  "     And  really  it  ain't  done  bad  !  ' 

It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  occurred  to  me,  that  this  detestable  cant  of  false 
humility  might  have  originated  out  of  the  Heep  family.  I  had  seen  the  harvest,  but 
had  never  thought  of  the  seed. 

'  When  I  was  quite  a  young  boy,'  said  Uriah,  '  I  got  to  know  what  umbleness  did, 
and  I  took  to  it.  I  ate  umble  pie  with  an  appetite.  I  stopped  at  the  umble  point 
of  my  learning,  and  says  I,  "  Hold  hard  !  "  When  you  offered  to  teach  me  Latin,  I 
knew  better.  "  People  like  to  be  above  you,"  says  father,  "  keep  yourself  down." 
I  am  very  umble  to  the  present  moment,  Master  Copperfield,  but  I  've  got  a  little 
power  ! ' 

And  he  said  all  this — I  knew,  as  I  saw  his  face  in  the  moonlight — that  I  might 
understand  he  was  resolved  to  recompense  himself  by  using  his  power.  I  had  never 
doubted  his  meanness,  his  craft  and  malice  ;  but  I  fully  comprehended  now,  for  the 
first  time,  what  a  base,  unrelenting,  and  revengeful  spirit,  must  have  been  engendered 
by  this  early,  and  this  long,  suppression. 

His  account  of  himself  was  so  far  attended  with  an  agreeable  result,  that  it  led 
to  his  withdrawing  his  hand  in  order  that  he  might  have  another  hug  of  liimself  under 
the  chin.  Once  apart  from  him,  I  was  determined  to  keep  apart ;  and  we  walked 
back,  side  by  side,  saying  very  little  more  by  the  way. 

Whether  his  spirits  were  elevated  by  the  communication  I  had  made  to  him, 
or  by  his  having  indulged  in  this  retrospect,  I  don't  know  ;  but  they  were  raised  by 
some  influence.  He  talked  more  at  dinner  than  was  usual  with  him  ;  asked  his 
mother  (off  duty  from  the  moment  of  our  re-entering  the  house),  whether  he  was  not 
growing  too  old  for  a  bachelor  ;  and  once  looked  at  Agnes  so,  that  I  would  have  given 
all  I  had,  for  leave  to  knock  him  down. 

Wlien  we  three  males  were  left  alone  after  dinner,  he  got  into  a  more  adventurous 
state.  He  had  taken  little  or  no  wine  ;  and  I  presume  it  was  the  mere  insolence  of 
triumph  that  was  upon  him.  flushed  perhaps  by  the  temptation  my  presence  fiimished 
to  its  exhibition. 

I  had  observed  yesterday,  that  he  tried  to  entice  Mr.  Wickfield  to  drink  ;    and 


374  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

interpreting  the  look  which  Agnes  had  given  me  as  she  went  out,  had  limited  myself 
to  one  glass,  and  then  proposed  that  we  should  follow  her.  I  would  have  done  so 
again  to-day  ;    but  Uriah  was  too  quick  for  me. 

'  We  seldom  see  our  present  visitor,  sir,'  he  said,  addressing  Mr.  Wickfield,  sitting, 
such  a  contrast  to  him,  at  the  end  of  the  table,  '  and  I  should  propose  to  give  him 
welcome  in  another  glass  or  two  of  wine,  if  you  have  no  objections.  Mr.  Copperfield, 
your  elth  and  appiness  !  ' 

I  was  obliged  to  make  a  show  of  taking  the  hand  he  stretched  across  to  me  ; 
and  then,  with  very  different  emotions,  I  took  the  hand  of  the  broken  gentleman, 
his  partner. 

'  Come,  fellow-partner,'  said  Uriah,  '  if  I  may  take  the  liberty, — now,  suppose 
you  give  us  something  or  another  appropriate  to  Copperfield  !  ' 

I  pass  over  Mr.  Wickfield's  proposing  my  aunt,  his  proposing  Mr.  Dick,  his  pro- 
posing Doctors'  Commons,  his  proposing  Uriah,  his  drinking  everything  twice ;  his 
consciousness  of  his  own  weakness,  the  ineffectual  effort  that  he  made  against  it ;  the 
struggle  between  his  shame  in  Uriah's  deportment,  and  his  desire  to  conciliate  him  ; 
the  manifest  exultation  with  which  Uriah  twisted  and  turned,  and  held  him  up  before 
me.     It  made  me  sick  at  heart  to  see,  and  my  hand  rocoils  from  writing  it. 

'  Come,  fellow-partner  !  '  said  Uriah,  at  last,  '  1  '11  give  you  another  one,  and  I 
umbly  ask  for  bumpers,  seeing  I  intend  to  make  it  the  divinest  of  her  sex.' 

Her  father  had  his  empty  glass  in  his  hand.  I  saw  him  set  it  down,  look  at  the 
picture  she  was  so  like,  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  shrink  back  in  his  elbow-chair. 

'  I  'm  an  umble  individual  to  give  you  her  elth,'  proceeded  Uriah,  '  but  I  admire 
— adore  her.' 

No  physical  pain  that  her  father's  grey  head  could  have  borne,  I  think,  could 
have  been  more  terrible  to  me,  than  the  mental  endurance  I  saw  compressed  now 
within  both  his  hands. 

'  Agnes,'  said  Uriah,  either  not  regarding  him,  or  not  knowing  what  the  nature 
of  his  action  was,  '  Agnes  Wickfield  is,  I  am  safe  to  say,  the  divinest  of  her  sex.  May 
I  'speak  out,  among  friends  ?  To  be  her  father  is  a  proud  distinction,  but  to  be  her 
usband ' 

Spare  me  from  ever  again  hearing  such  a  cry,  as  that  with  which  her  father  rose 
up  from  the  table  ! 

'  What 's  the  matter  !  '  said  Uriah,  turning  of  a  deadly  colour.  '  You  are  not 
gone  mad,  after  all,  Mr.  Wickfield,  I  hope  ?  If  I  say  I  've  an  ambition  to  make  your 
Agnes  my  Agnes,  I  have  as  good  a  right  to  it  as  another  man.  I  have  a  better  right 
to  it  than  any  other  man  ! ' 

I  had  my  arms  round  Mr.  Wickfield,  imploring  him  by  everything  that  I  could 
think  of,  oftenest  of  all  by  his  love  for  Agnes,  to  calm  himself  a  httle.  He  was  mad 
for  the  moment ;  tearing  out  his  hair,  beating  his  head,  trying  to  force  me  from  him, 
and  to  force  himself  from  me,  not  answering  a  word,  not  looking  at  or  seeing  any 
one  ;  blindly  striving  for  he  knew  not  what,  his  face  all  staring  and  distorted — a 
frightful  spectacle. 

I  conjured  him,  incoherently,  but  in  the  most  impassioned  manner,  not  to 
abandon  himself  to  this  wildness,  but  to  hear  me.  I  besought  him  to  think  of  Agnes, 
to  connect  me  with  Agnes,  to  recollect  how  Agnes  and  I  had  grown  up  together,  how 
I  honoured  her  and  loved  her,  how  she  was  his  pride  and  joy.  I  tried  to  bring  her 
idea  before  him  in  any  form  ;    I  even  reproached  him  with  not  having  firmness  to 


WICKFIELD  AND  HEEP  875 

spare  her  the  knowledge  of  such  u  .scene  us  tliis.  I  may  have  effcetcfl  something,  or 
his  wildncss  may  have  spent  itself  ;  but  by  degrees  he  struggled  less,  and  began  to 
look  at  me — strangely  at  first,  then  with  recognition  in  his  eyes.  At  length  he  said, 
'  I  know,  Trotwood  !     My  darling  child  and  you — I  know  !     IJul  look  at  him  !  ' 

He  pointed  to  Uriah,  pale  and  glowering  in  a  corner,  evidently  very  much  out 
in  his  calculations,  and  taken  by  surprise. 

'  Look  at  my  torturer,'  he  replied.  '  Before  him  I  have  step  l)y  step  abandoned 
name  and  reputation,  peace  and  quiet,  house  and  home.' 

'  I  have  kept  your  name  and  re|)ulalion  for  you,  and  >our  peace  and  quiet,  and 
your  house  and  home  too,'  said  Uriah,  with  a  sulky,  hurried,  defeated  air  of  com- 
promise. '  Don't  be  foolish,  Mr.  Wickficld.  If  I  have  gone  a  little  beyond  what 
you  were  prepared  for,  I  can  go  back,  I  sujiposc  ?     There  's  no  harm  done.' 

'  I  looked  for  single  motives  in  every  one,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  '  and  I  was  satisfied 
I  had  bound  him  to  me  by  motives  of  interest.  But  see  what  he  is — oh,  see  what 
he  is  I  • 

'  You  had  better  stop  him,  Copperfield,  if  you  can,'  cried  Uriah,  with  his  long 
forefinger  pointing  towards  me.  '  He  '11  say  something  presently — mind  you  ! — he  '11 
be  sorry  to  have  said  afterwards,  and  you  '11  be  sorry  to  have  heard  !  ' 

'  I  '11  say  anything  !  '  cried  Mr.  Wickfield,  with  a  desperate  air.  '  Why  should 
I  not  be  in  all  the  world's  power  if  I  am  in  yours  ?  ' 

'  Mind  !  I  tell  you  !  '  said  Uriah,  continuing  to  warn  me.  '  If  you  don't  stop  his 
mouth,  you  're  not  his  friend  !  Why  shouldn't  you  be  in  all  the  world's  power, 
Mr.  Wickfield  ?  Because  you  have  got  a  daughter.  You  and  me  know  what  we 
know,  don't  we  ?  Let  sleeping  dogs  lie — who  wants  to  rouse  'em  ?  I  don't.  Can't 
you  see  I  am  as  umble  as  I  can  be  ?  I  tell  you,  if  I  've  gone  too  far,  I  'm  sorry. 
What  would  you  have,  sir  ? ' 

'  Oh,  Trotwood,  Trotwood !  '  exclaimed  Mr.  Wickfield,  wringing  his  hands. 
'  What  I  have  come  down  to  be,  since  I  first  saw  you  in  this  house  !  I  was  on  my 
downward  way  then,  but  the  dreary,  dreary,  road  I  have  traversed  since  !  Weak 
indulgence  has  ruined  me.  Indulgence  in  remembrance,  and  indulgence  in  forget- 
fulness.  My  natural  grief  for  my  child's  mother  turned  to  disease  ;  my  natural  love 
for  my  child  turned  to  disease.  I  have  infected  everything  I  touched.  I  have 
brought  misery  on  what  I  dearly  love,  I  know — You  know  !  I  thought  it  possible 
that  I  could  truly  love  one  creature  in  the  world,  and  not  love  the  rest ;  I  thought 
it  possible  that  I  could  truly  mourn  for  one  creature  gone  out  of  the  world,  and  not 
have  some  part  in  the  grief  of  all  who  mourned.  Thus  the  lessons  of  my  life  have  been 
perverted  !  I  have  preyed  on  my  own  morbid  coward  heart,  and  it  has  prayed  on 
me.  Sordid  in  my  grief,  sordid  in  my  love,  sordid  in  my  miserable  escape  from  the 
darker  side  of  both,  oh  see  the  ruin  I  am,  and  hate  me,  shun  me  !  ' 

He  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  weakly  sobbed.  The  excitement  into  which  he  had 
been  roused  was  leaving  him.     Uriah  came  out  of  his  corner. 

'  I  don't  know  all  I  have  done,  in  my  fatuity,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  putting  out 
his  hands,  as  if  to  deprecate  my  condemnation.  '  He  knows  best,'  meaning  Uriah 
Heep,  '  for  he  has  always  been  at  my  elbow,  whispering  me.  You  see  the  millstone 
that  he  is  about  my  neck.  You  find  him  in  my  house,  you  find  him  in  my  business. 
You  heard  him,  but  a  little  time  ago.     What  need  have  I  to  say  more  ?  ' 

'  You  haven't  need  to  say  so  much,  nor  half  so  much,  nor  anything  at  all,'  observed 
Uriah,  half  defiant,  and  half  fawning.     '  You  wouldn't  have  took  it  up  so,  if  it  hadn't 


376  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

been  for  the  wine.  You  '11  think  better  of  it  to-morrow,  sir.  If  I  have  said  too  much, 
or  more  than  I  meant,  what  of  it  ?     I  haven't  stood  by  it  !  ' 

The  door  opened,  and  Agnes,  gliding  in,  without  a  vestige  of  colour  in  her  face, 
put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and  steadily  said,  '  Papa,  you  are  not  well.  Come  with 
me  !  '  He  laid  his  head  upon  her  shoulder,  as  if  he  were  oppressed  with  heavy  shame, 
and  went  out  with  her.  Her  eyes  met  mine  for  but  an  instant,  yet  I  saw  how  much 
she  knew  of  what  had  passed. 

'  I  didn't  expect  he  'd  cut  up  so  rough,  Master  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah.  '  But 
it 's  nothing.  I  '11  be  friends  with  him  to-morrow.  It 's  for  his  good.  I  'm  umbly 
anxious  for  his  good.' 

I  gave  him  no  answer,  and  went  upstairs  into  the  quiet  room  where  Agnes  had 
so  often  sat  beside  me  at  my  books.  Nobody  came  near  me  until  late  at  night.  I 
took  up  a  book  and  tried  to  read.  I  heard  the  clocks  strike  twelve,  and  was  still 
reading,  without  knowing  what  I  read,  when  Agnes  touched  me. 

'  You  will  be  going  early  in  the  morning,  Trotwood  !     Let  us  say  good-bye,  now  !  ' 

She  had  been  weeping,  but  her  face  then  was  so  calm  and  beautiful  ! 

'  Heaven  bless  you  !  '    she  said,  giving  me  her  hand. 

'  Dearest  Agnes  !  '  I  returned,  '  I  see  you  ask  me  not  to  speak  of  to-night — but 
is  there  nothing  to  be  done  ?  ' 

'  There  is  God  to  trust  in  !  '    she  repHed. 

'  Can  /  do  nothing — I,  who  come  to  you  with  my  poor  sorrows  ?  ' 

'  And  make  mine  so  much  lighter,'  she  replied.     '  Dear  Trotwood,  no  !  ' 

'  Dear  Agnes,'  I  said,  '  it  is  presumptuous  for  me,  who  am  so  poor  in  all  in  which 
you  are  so  rich — goodness,  resolution,  all  noble  qualities — to  doubt  or  direct  you  ; 
but  you  know  how  much  I  love  you,  and  how  much  I  owe  you.  You  will  never 
sacrifice  yourself  to  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty,  Agnes  ?  ' 

More  agitated  for  a  moment  than  I  had  ever  seen  her,  she  took  her  hand  from 
me,  and  moved  a  step  back. 

'  Say  you  have  no  such  thought,  dear  Agnes  !  Much  more  than  sister  !  Think 
of  the  priceless  gift  of  such  a  heart  as  yours,  of  such  a  love  as  yours  !  ' 

Oh  !  long,  long  afterwards,  I  saw  that  face  rise  up  before  me,  with  its  momentary 
look,  not  wondering,  not  accusing,  not  regretting.  Oh,  long,  long  afterwards,  I  saw 
that  look  subside,  as  it  did  now,  into  the  lovely  smile,  with  which  she  told  me  she 
had  no  fear  for  herself — I  need  have  none  for  her — and  parted  from  me  by  the  name 
of  Brother,  and  was  gone  ! 

It  was  dark  in  the  morning  when  I  got  upon  the  coach  at  the  inn  door.  The 
day  was  just  breaking  when  we  were  about  to  start,  and  then,  as  I  sat  thinking  of  her, 
came  struggling  up  the  coach  side,  through  the  mingled  day  and  night,  Uriah's  head. 

'  Copperfield  !  '  said  he,  in  a  croaking  whisper,  as  he  hung  by  the  iron  on  the 
roof,  '  I  thought  you  'd  be  glad  to  hear,  before  you  went  off,  that  there  are  no  squares 
broke  between  us.  I  've  been  into  his  room  already,  and  we  've  made  it  all  smooth. 
Wliy,  though  I  'm  umble,  I  'm  useful  to  him,  you  know  ;  and  he  understands  his 
interest  when  he  isn't  in  liquor  !  What  an  agreeable  man  he  is,  after  all,  Master 
Copperfield  !  ' 

I  obliged  mj'self  to  say  that  I  was  glad  he  had  made  his  apology. 

'  Oh,  to  be  sure  !  '  said  Uriah.  '  When  a  person's  umble,  you  know,  what 's  an 
apology  ?  So  easy  !  I  say  !  I  suppose,'  with  a  jerk,  '  you  have  sometimes  plucked 
a  pear  before  it  was  ripe.  Master  Copperfield  ?  ' 


THE  WANDERER  377 

'  I  suppose  I  have,'  I  replied. 

'  /  did  that  last  night,'  said  Uriah  ;  '  hut  it  '11  ripen  yet  !  It  only  wants  attending 
to.     I  can  wait  1  ' 

Profuse  in  his  farewells,  he  got  down  again  as  the  coachman  got  up.  For  any- 
thing I  know,  he  was  eating  something  to  keep  the  raw  morning  air  out ;  but  he 
made  motions  with  his  mouth  as  if  the  pear  were  ripe  already,  and  he  were  smacking 
his  lips  over  it. 


CHAPTER    XL 

TOE  WANDERER 

WE  had  a  very  serious  conversation  in  Buckingham  Street  that  night, 
about  the  domestic  occurrences  I  have  detailed  in  the  last  chapter. 
My  aunt  was  deeply  interested  in  them,  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  with  her  arms  folded,  for  more  than  two  hours  afterwards. 
Whenever  she  was  particularly  discomposed,  she  always  performed  one  of  these 
pedestrian  feats  ;  and  the  amount  of  her  discomposure  might  always  be  estimated 
by  the  duration  of  her  walk.  On  this  occasion  she  was  so  much  disturbed  in  mind 
as  to  find  it  necessary  to  open  the  bedroom  door,  and  make  a  course  for  herself,  com- 
prising the  full  extent  of  the  bedroom  from  wall  to  wall ;  and  while  Mr.  Dick  and 
I  sat  quietly  by  the  fire,  she  kept  passing  in  and  out,  along  this  measured  track,  at  an 
unchanging  pace,  with  the  regularity  of  a  clock  pendulum. 

When  my  aunt  and  I  were  left  to  ourselves  by  Mr.  Dick's  going  out  to  bed,  I  sat 
down  to  write  my  letter  to  the  two  old  ladies.  By  that  time  she  was  tired  of  walking, 
and  sat  by  the  fire  with  her  dress  tucked  up  as  usual.  But  instead  of  sitting  in  her 
usual  manner,  holding  her  glass  upon  her  knee,  she  suffered  it  to  stand  neglected  on 
the  chimney-piece  ;  and,  resting  her  left  elbow  on  her  right  arm,  and  her  chin  on  her 
left  hand,  looked  thoughtfully  at  me.  As  often  as  I  raised  my  eyes  from  what  I  was 
about,  I  met  hers.  '  I  am  in  the  lovingest  of  tempers,  my  dear,'  she  would  assure 
me  with  a  nod,  '  but  I  am  fidgeted  and  sorry  !  ' 

I  had  been  too  busy  to  observe,  until  after  she  was  gone  to  bed,  that  she  had  left 
her  night-mixture,  as  she  always  called  it,  untasted  on  the  chimney-piece.  She  came 
to  her  door,  with  even  more  than  her  usual  affection  of  manner,  when  I  knocked  to 
acquaint  her  with  this  discovery  ;  but  only  said,  '  I  have  not  the  heart  to  take  it. 
Trot,  to-night,'  and  shook  her  head,  and  went  in  again. 

She  read  my  letter  to  the  two  old  ladies,  in  the  morning,  and  approved  of  it.  I 
posted  it,  and  had  nothing  to  do  then,  but  wait,  as  patiently  as  I  could,  for  the  reply. 
I  was  still  in  this  state  of  expectation,  and  had  been,  for  nearly  a  week  ;  when  T  left 
the  Doctor's  one  snowy  night,  to  walk  home. 

It  had  been  a  bitter  day,  and  a  cutting  north-east  wind  had  blown  for  some  time 
The  wind  had  gone  down  with  the  light,  and  so  the  snow  had  come  on.  It  was  a  heavj*. 
settled  fall,  I  recollect,  in  great  flakes  ;  and  it  lay  thick.  The  noise  of  wheels  and 
tread  of  people  were  as  hushed,  as  if  the  streets  had  been  strewn  that  depth  with 
feathers. 

My  shortest  way  home,— and  I  naturally  took  the  shortest  way  on  such  a  night 


378  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

— was  through  Saint  Martin's  Lane.  Now,  the  church  which  gives  its  name  to  the 
lane,  stood  in  a  less  free  situation  at  that  time ;  there  being  no  open  space  before  it, 
and  the  lane  winding  down  to  the  Strand.  As  I  passed  the  steps  of  the  portico,  I 
encountered,  at  the  corner,  a  woman's  face.  It  looked  in  mine,  passed  across  the 
narrow  lane,  and  disappeared.  I  knew  it.  I  had  seen  it  somewhere.  But  I  could 
not  remember  where.  I  had  some  association  with  it,  that  struck  upon  my  heart 
directly  ;  but  I  was  thinking  of  anything  else  when  it  came  upon  me,  and  was 
confused. 

On  the  steps  of  the  church,  there  was  the  stooping  figure  of  a  man,  who  had  put 
down  some  burden  on  the  smooth  snow,  to  adjust  it  ;  my  seeing  the  face,  and  my 
seeing  him,  were  simultaneous.  I  don't  think  I  had  stopped  in  my  surprise  ;  but, 
in  any  case,  as  I  went  on,  he  rose,  turned,  and  came  down  towards  me.  I  stood  face 
to  face  with  ]\Ir.  Peggotty  ! 

Then  I  remembered  the  woman.     It  was  Martha,  to  whom  Emily  had  given  the 

money  that  night  in  the  kitchen.     Martha  Endell — side  by  side  with  whom,  he  would 

not  have  seen  his  dear  niece,  Ham  had  told  me,  for  all  the  treasures  wrecked  in  the  sea. 

We  shook  hands  heartily.     At  first,  neither  of  us  could  speak  a  word. 

'  Mas'r  Davy  !  '    he  said,  griping  me  tight,  '  it  do  my  art  good  to  see  you,  sir 

Well  met,  well  met  !  ' 

'  Well  met,  my  dear  old  friend  !  '    said  I. 

'  I  had  my  thowts  o'  coming  to  make  inquiration  for  you,  sir,  to-night,'  he  said, 
'  but  knowing  as  your  aunt  was  living  along  wi'  you — for  I  've  been  down  yonder — 
Yarmouth  way — I  was  afeerd  it  was  too  late.     I  should  have  come  early  in   the 
morning,  sir,  afore  going  away.' 
'  Again  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  he  replied,  patiently  shaking  his  head,  '  I  'm  away  to-morrow.' 
'  Where  were  you  going  now  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  Well  !  '  he  replied,  shaking  the  snow  out  of  his  long  hair,  '  I  was  a  going  to  tui-n 
in  somewheers.' 

In  those  days  there  was  a  side-entrance  to  the  stable-yard  of  the  Golden  Cross, 
the  inn  so  memorable  to  me  in  connection  with  his  misfortune,  nearly  opposite  to 
where  we  stood.  I  pointed  out  the  gateway,  put  my  arm  through  his,  and  we  went 
across.  Two  or  three  public-rooms  opened  out  of  the  stable-yard  ;  and  looking  into 
one  of  them,  and  finding  it  empty,  and  a  good  fire  burning,  I  took  him  in  there. 

When  I  saw  him  in  the  light,  I  observed,  not  only  that  his  hair  was  long  and 
ragged,  but  that  his  face  was  burnt  dark  by  the  sun.  He  was  greyer,  the  lines  in  his 
face  and  forehead  were  deeper,  and  he  had  every  appearance  of  having  toiled  and 
wandered  through  all  varieties  of  weather  ;  but  he  looked  very  strong,  and  like  a  man 
upheld  by  steadfastness  of  purpose,  whom  nothing  could  tire  out.  He  shook  the 
snow  from  his  hat  and  clothes,  and  brushed  it  away  from  his  face,  while  I  was  inwardly 
making  these  remarks.  As  he  sat  down  opposite  to  me  at  a  table,  with  his  back  to 
the  door  by  which  we  had  entered,  he  put  out  his  rough  hand  again,  and  grasped 
mine  warmly. 

'  I  '11  tell  you,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  said — '  wheer  all  I  've  been,  and  what-all  we  've 
heerd.     I  've  been  fur,  and  we  've  heerd  little  ;   but  I  '11  tell  you  ?  ' 

I  rang  the  bell  for  something  hot  to  drink.  He  would  have  nothing  stronger 
than  ale  ;  and  while  it  was  being  brought,  and  being  warmed  at  the  fire,  he  sat  think- 
ing.    There  was  a  fine  massive  gravity  in  his  face,  I  did  not  venture  to  disturb. 


THE  WANDERER  879 

'  When  she  was  a  child,'  he  said,  iiftiiij,'  up  his  head  soon  after  we  were  left  alone, 
'  she  used  to  talk  to  nic  n  deal  ahout  tlu-  sc:i,  :iiid  ultout  them  coasts  where  the  sea  got 
to  be  dark  l)lue,  and  to  lay  a  shining  and  a  shining  in  the  sun.  I  thowt,  odd  times, 
as  her  father  being  drownded  made  her  think  on  it  so  much.  I  doen't  know,  you  see, 
but  maybe  she  believed — or  hoped — he  had  drifted  out  to  them  parts,  where  the 
flowers  is  always  a  blowing,  and  the  country  bright.' 

'  It  is  likely  to  have  been  a  childish  fancy,'  I  replied. 

'  When  she  was — lost,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  I  know'd  in  my  mind,  as  he  would 
take  her  to  them  countries.  I  know'd  in  my  mind,  as  he  'tl  have  told  her  wonders  of 
'em,  and  how  she  was  to  be  a  lady  theer,  and  how  he  got  her  listen  to  him  fust,  along 
o'  seeh  like.  When  we  see  his  mother,  I  know'd  quite  well  as  I  was  right.  I  went 
across-channel  to  France,  and  landed  theer,  as  if  I  'd  fell  down  from  the  sky.' 

I  saw  the  door  move,  and  the  snow  drift  in.  I  saw  it  move  a  little  more,  and  a 
hand  softly  interpose  to  keep  it  open. 

'  I  found  out  an  English  gen'leman  as  was  in  authority,  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  and 
told  him  I  was  a  going  to  seek  my  niece.  He  got  me  them  papers  as  I  wanted  fur  to 
carry  me  through — I  doen't  rightly  know  how  they  're  called — and  he  would  have 
give  me  money,  but  that  I  was  thankful  to  have  no  need  on.  I  thank  him  kind,  for  all 
he  done,  I  'm  sure  !  "  I  've  wrote  afore  you,"  he  says  to  me,  "  and  I  shall  speak  to 
many  as  will  come  that  way,  and  many  will  know  you,  fur  distant  from  here,  when 
you  're  a  travelling  alone."  I  told  him,  best  as  I  was  able,  what  my  gratitoode  was, 
and  went  away  through  France.' 

'  Alone,  and  on  foot  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Mostly  afoot,'  he  rejoined  ;  '  sometimes  in  carts  along  with  people  going  to 
market  ;  sometimes  in  empty  coaches.  Many  mile  a  day  afoot,  and  often  with  some 
poor  soldier  or  another,  travelling  to  see  his  friends.  I  couldn't  talk  to  him,'  said 
Mr.  Peggotty,  '  nor  he  to  me  ;  but  we  was  company  for  one  another,  too,  along  the 
dusty  roads.' 

I  should  have  known  that  by  his  friendly  tone. 

'  When  I  come  to  any  town,'  he  pursued,  '  I  found  the  inn,  and  waited  about  the 
yard  till  some  one  turned  up  (some  one  mostly  did)  as  know'd  English.  Then  I  told 
how  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  seek  my  niece,  and  they  told  me  what  manner  of 
gentlefolks  was  in  the  house,  and  I  waited  to  see  any  as  seemed  like  her,  going  in  or 
out.  When  it  warn't  Em'ly,  I  went  on  agen.  By  little  and  little,  when  I  come  to  a 
new  village  or  that,  among  the  poor  people,  I  found  they  know'd  about  me.  They 
would  set  me  down  at  their  cottage  doors,  and  give  we  Mhat-not  fur  to  eat  and  drink, 
and  show  me  where  to  sleep  ;  and  many  a  woman,  Mas'r  Davy,  as  has  had  a  daughter 
of  about  Em'ly's  age,  I  've  found  a  waiting  for  me,  at  Our  Saviour's  Cross  outside  the 
village,  fur  to  do  me  sim'lar  kindnesses.  Some  has  had  daughters  as  was  dead.  And 
God  only  knows  how  good  them  mothers  was  to  me  !  ' 

It  was  Martha  at  the  door.  I  saw  her  haggard,  listening  face  distinctly.  My 
dread  was  lest  he  should  turn  his  head,  and  see  her  too. 

'  They  would  often  put  their  children — partic'lar  their  little  girls,'  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  '  upon  my  knee  ;  and  many  a  time  you  might  have  seen  me  sitting  at  theer 
doors,  when  night  was  coming  on,  a' most  as  if  they  'd  been  my  darling's  children. 
Oh,  my  darling  !  ' 

Overpowered  by  sudden  grief,  he  sobbed  aloud.  I  laid  my  trembling  hand  upon 
the  hand  he  put  before  his  face.     '  Thank'ec,  sir,'  he  said,  '  doen't  take  no  notice.' 


380  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

In  a  very  little  while  he  took  his  hand  away  and  put  it  on  his  breast,  and  went 
on  with  his  story. 

'  They  often  walked  with  me,'  he  said,  '  in  the  morning,  maybe  a  mile  or  two 
upon  my  road  ;  and  when  we  parted,  and  I  said,  "  I  'm  thankful  to  you  !  God  bless 
you  !  "  they  always  seemed  to  understand,  and  answered  pleasant.  At  last  I  come 
to  the  sea.  It  warn't  hard,  you  may  suppose,  for  a  seafaring  man  like  me  to  work 
his  way  over  to  Italy.  When  I  got  theer,  I  wandered  on  as  I  had  done  afore.  The 
people  was  just  as  good  to  me,  and  I  should  have  gone  from  town  to  town,  maybe  the 
country  through,  but  that  I  got  news  of  her  being  seen  among  them  Swiss  mountains 
yonder.  One  as  know'd  his  sarvant  see  'em  there,  all  three,  and  told  me  how  they 
travelled,  and  where  they  was.  I  made  for  them  mountains,  Mas'r  Davy,  day  and 
night.  Ever  so  fur  as  I  went,  ever  so  fur  the  mountains  seemed  to  shift  away  from 
me.  But  I  come  up  with  'em,  and  I  crossed  'em.  When  I  got  nigh  the  place  as  I 
had  been  told  of,  I  began  to  think  within  my  own  self,  "  What  shall  I  do  when  I 
see  her  ?  "  ' 

The  listening  face,  insensible  to  the  inclement  night,  still  drooped  at  the  door, 
and  the  hands  begged  me — prayed  me — not  to  cast  it  forth. 

'  I  never  doubted  her,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  No  !  Not  a  bit  !  On'y  let  her  see 
my  face — on'y  let  her  heer  my  voice — on'y  let  my  stanning  still  afore  her  bring  to  her 
thoughts  the  home  she  had  fled  away  from,  and  the  child  she  had  been — and  if  she 
had  growed  to  be  a  royal  lady,  she  'd  have  fell  down  at  my  feet !  I  know'd  it  well ! 
Many  a  time  in  my  sleep  had  I  heerd  her  cry  out,  "  Uncle  !  "  and  seen  her  fall  like 
death  afore  me.  Many  a  time  in  my  sleep  had  I  raised  her  up,  and  whispered 
to  her,  "  Em'ly,  my  dear,  I  am  come  fur  to  bring  forgiveness,  and  to  take  you 
home  !  "  ' 

He  stopped  and  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  with  a  sigh. 

'  He  was  nowt  to  me  now.  Em'ly  was  all.  I  bought  a  country  dress  to  put 
upon  her  ;  and  I  know'd  that,  once  found,  she  would  walk  beside  me  over  them 
stony  roads,  go  where  I  would,  and  never,  never,  leave  me  more.  To  put  that  dress 
upon  her,  and  to  cast  off  what  she  wore — to  take  her  on  my  arm  again,  and  wander 
towards  home — to  stop  sometimes  upon  the  road,  and  heal  her  bruised  feet  and  her 
worse-bruised  heart — was  all  that  I  thowt  of  now.  I  doen't  believe  I  should  have  done 
so  much  as  look  at  him.  But,  Mas'r  Davy,  it  warn't  to  be — not  yet  !  I  was  too  late, 
and  they  was  gone.  Wheer,  I  couldn't  learn.  Some  said  heer,  some  said  theer.  I 
travelled  heer,  and  I  travelled  theer,  but  I  found  no  Em'ly,  and  I  travelled  home.' 

'  How  long  ago  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  A  matter  o'  fower  days,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  I  sighted  the  old  boat  arter  dark, 
and  the  light  a  shining  in  the  winder.  When  I  come  nigh  and  looked  in  through 
the  glass,  I  see  the  faithful  creetur  Missis  Gummidge  sittin'  by  the  fire,  as  we  had 
fixed  upon,  alone.  I  called  out,  "  Doen't  be  afeerd  !  It 's  Dan'l  !  "  and  I  went  in. 
I  never  could  have  thowt  the  old  boat  would  have  been  so  strange  !  ' 

From  some  pocket  in  his  breast  he  took  out,  with  a  very  careful  hand,  a  small 
paper  bundle  containing  two  or  three  letters  or  little  packets,  which  he  laid  upon 
the  table. 

'  This  fust  one  come,'  he  said,  selecting  it  from  the  rest,  '  afore  I  had  been  gone  a 
week.  A  fifty  pound  bank-note,  in  a  sheet  of  paper,  directed  to  me,  and  put  under- 
neath the  door  in  the  night.  She  tried  to  hide  her  writing,  but  she  couldn't  hide  it 
from  Me !  * 


THE  WANDERER  881 

He  folded  up  the  note  aguiri,  with  {rrcat  patience  and  care,  in  exactly  the  same 
form,  and  laid  it  on  one  side. 

'  This  come  to  Missis  Ciununidge,'  he  said,  opening  another,  '  two  or  three  months 
ago.'  After  looking  at  it  for  some  moments,  he  gave  it  to  me,  and  added  in  a  low 
voice,  '  Be  so  good  us  read  it,  sir.' 

I  read  us  follows  :-— 

'Oh  what  will  you  fuel  when  you  sec  this  writing,  and  know  it  comes  from  niy  wicked 
hand  ?  But  try,  try — not  for  my  sake,  but  for  uncle's  goodness,  try  to  let  your  heart  soften 
to  nic,  only  for  a  little  little  time  !  Try,  pray  do,  to  relent  t(jwards  a  miserable  girl,  and 
write  down  on  a  bit  of  paper  whether  he  is  well,  and  what  he  said  about  me  before  you  left 
off  ever  naming  me  among  yourselves — and  whether,  of  a  night,  when  it  is  my  old  time  of 
coming  home,  you  ever  sec  him  look  as  if  he  thought  of  one  he  used  to  love  so  dear.  Oh, 
my  heart  is  breaking  when  I  think  about  it !  I  am  kneeling  down  to  you,  begging  and  pray- 
ing you  not  to  be  as  hard  with  me  as  I  deserve — as  I  well,  well  know  I  deserve — but  to  be 
so  gentle  and  so  good,  as  to  write  down  something  of  him,  and  to  send  it  to  me.  You  need 
not  call  me  Little,  you  need  not  call  me  by  the  name  I  have  disgraced ;  but  oh,  listen  to  my 
agony,  and  have  mercy  on  me  so  far  as  to  write  me  some  word  of  uncle,  never,  never  to  be 
seen  in  this  world  by  my  eyes  again  ! 

'Dear,  if  your  heart  is  hard  towards  me — justly  hard,  I  know — but,  Listen,  if  it  is 
hard,  dear,  ask  him  I  have  wronged  the  most — him  whose  wife  I  was  to  have  been — 
before  you  quite  decide  against  my  poor  poor  prayer !  If  he  should  be  so  compassionate  as 
to  say  that  you  might  write  something  for  me  to  read — I  think  he  would,  oh,  I  think  he 
would,  if  you  would  only  ask  him,  for  he  always  was  so  brave  and  so  forgiving — tell  him 
then  (but  not  else),  that  when  I  hear  the  wind  blowing  at  night,  I  feel  as  if  it  was  passing 
angrily  from  seeing  him  and  uncle,  and  was  going  up  to  God  against  me.  Tell  him  that  if  I 
was  to  die  to-morrow  (and  oh,  if  I  was  fit,  I  would  be  so  glad  to  die !)  I  would  bless  him 
and  uncle  with  my  last  words,  and  pray  for  his  happy  home  with  my  last  breath  ! ' 

Some  money  was  enclosed  in  this  letter  also.  P'ive  pounds.  It  was  untouched 
like  the  previous  sum,  and  he  refolded  it  in  the  same  way.  Detailed  instructions 
were  added  relative  to  the  address  of  a  reply,  which,  although  they  betrayed  the 
intervention  of  several  hands,  and  made  it  difficult  to  arrive  at  any  very  probable 
conclusion  in  reference  to  her  place  of  concealment,  made  it  at  least  not  unlikely  that 
she  had  written  from  that  spot  where  she  was  stated  to  have  been  seen. 

'  What  answer  was  sent  ?  '    I  inquired  of  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  Missis  Gummidge,'  he  returned,  '  not  being  a  good  scholar,  sir.  Ham  kindly 
drawed  it  out,  and  she  made  a  copy  on  it.  They  told  her  I  was  gone  to  seek  her,  and 
what  my  parting  words  was.' 

'  Is  that  another  letter  in  your  hand  ?  '    said  I. 

'  It 's  money,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  unfolding  it  a  little  way.  '  Ten  pound, 
you  see.  And  wrote  inside,  "  From  a  true  friend,"  like  the  fust.  But  the  fust  was 
put  underneath  the  door,  and  this  come  by  the  post,  day  afore  yesterday.  I  'm  a 
going  to  seek  her  at  the  post-mark.' 

He  showed  it  to  me.  It  was  a  town  on  the  Upper  Rhine.  He  had  found  out, 
at  Yarmouth,  some  foreign  dealers  who  knew  that  country,  and  they  had  drawn  him 
a  rude  map  on  paper,  which  he  could  very  well  understand.  He  laid  it  between  us 
on  the  table  ;  and,  with  his  chin  resting  on  one  hand,  tracked  his  course  upon  it  with 
the  other. 

I  asked  him  how  Ham  was  ?     He  shook  his  head. 


382  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  He  works,'  he  said,  '  as  hold  as  a  man  can.  His  name  's  as  good,  in  all  that 
part,  as  any  man's  is,  anywheres  in  the  wureld.  Any  one's  hand  is  ready  to  help 
him,  you  understand,  and  his  is  ready  to  help  them.  He  's  never  been  heerd  fur  to 
complain.     But  my  sister's  belief  is  ('twixt  ourselves)  as  it  has  cut  him  deep.' 

'  Poor  fellow,  I  can  believe  it  !  ' 

'  He  ain't  no  care,  Mas'r  Davy,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty  in  a  solemn  whisper — '  keinder 
no  care  no-how  for  his  life.  When  a  man's  Avanted  for  rough  sarvice  in  rough  weather, 
he  's  theer.  ^Vhen  there  's  hard  duty  to  be  done  with  danger  in  it,  he  steps  for'ard 
afore  all  his  mates.  And  yet  he  's  as  gentle  as  any  child.  There  ain't  a  child  in 
Yarmouth  that  doen't  know  him.' 

He  gathered  up  the  letters  thoughtfully,  smoothing  them  with  his  hand  ;  put 
them  into  their  little  bundle  ;  and  placed  it  tenderly  in  his  breast  again.  The  face 
was  gone  from  the  door.     I  still  saw  the  snow  drifting  in  ;   but  nothing  else  was  there. 

'  Well  !  '  he  said,  looking  to  his  bag,  '  having  seen  you  to-night,  Mas'r  Davy 
(and  that  doos  me  good  !)  I  shall  away  betimes  to-morrow  morning.  You  have  seen 
what  I  've  got  heer  '  ;  putting  his  hand  on  where  the  little  packet  lay  ;  '  all  that 
troubles  me  is,  to  think  that  any  harm  might  come  to  me,  afore  that  money  was  give 
back.  If  I  was  to  die,  and  it  was  lost,  or  stole,  or  elseways  made  away  with,  and  it 
was  never  know'd  by  him  but  what  I  'd  took  it,  I  believe  the  t'other  wureld  wouldn't 
hold  me  !     I  believe  I  must  come  back  !  ' 

He  rose,  and  I  rose  too  ;  we  grasped  each  other  by  the  hand  again,  before  going  out. 

'  I  'd  go  ten  thousand  mile,'  he  said,  '  I  'd  go  till  I  dropped  dead,  to  lay  that  money 
down  afore  him.  If  I  do  that,  and  find  my  Em'ly,  I  'm  content.  If  I  doen't  find  her, 
maybe  she  '11  come  to  hear,  sometime,  as  her  loving  uncle  only  ended  his  search  for 
her  when  he  ended  his  life  ;   and  if  I  know  her,  even  that  will  turn  her  home  at  last !  ' 

As  he  went  out  into  the  rigorous  night,  I  saw  the  lonely  figure  flit  away  before  us. 
I  turned  him  hastily  on  some  pretence,  and  held  him  in  conversation  until  it  was  gone. 

He  spoke  of  a  travellers'  house  on  the  Dover  Road,  where  he  knew  he  could  find 
a  clean,  plain  lodging  for  the  night.  I  went  with  him  over  Westminster  Bridge,  and 
parted  from  him  on  the  Surrey  shore.  Everything  seemed,  to  my  imagination,  to  be 
hushed  in  reverence  for  him,  as  he  resumed  his  solitary  journey  through  the  snow. 

I  returned  to  the  inn  yard,  and,  impressed  by  my  remembrance  of  the  face,  looked 
awfully  around  for  it.  It  was  not  there.  The  snow  had  covered  our  late  footprints ; 
my  new  track  was  the  only  one  to  be  seen  ;  and  even  that  began  to  die  away  (it 
snowed  so  fast)  as  I  looked  back  over  my  shoulder. 


CHAPTER    XLI 
Dora's  aunts 

jA  T  last,  an  answer  came  from  the  two  ladies.     They  presented  their  compli- 

/  ^         ments  to  Mr.  Copperfield,   and    informed  him  that  they  had  given  his 

/      %        letter  their  best  consideration,  '  with  a  view  to  the  happiness  of  both 

-^       -^-     parties ' — which  I  thought  rather  an  alarming  expression,  not  only  because 

of  the  use  they  had  made  of  it  in  relation  to  the  family  difference  before-mentioned, 

but  because  I  had  (and  have  all  my  life)  observed  that  conventional  phrases  are  a 


DORA'S  AUNTS  :J83 

sort  of  fireworks,  easily  let  off,  and  liui)le  to  take  a  f^reat  variety  of  shapes  and  colours 
not  at  all  siifjgcsted  l>y  tlicir  orifjinal  form.  'l"he  Misses  Spenlow  added  that  they 
begged  to  forbear  expressing,  '  through  the  rnediviin  of  eorresfiondenee,'  an  ojiinion 
on  the  subjeet  of  Mr.  Copperheld's  communieation  ;  but  that  if  Mr.  Copperfield  would 
do  them  the  favour  to  eall,  upon  a  eertain  day  (accompanied,  if  he  thought  proper, 
by  a  confidential  friend),  they  would  lie  hapj)y  to  hold  some  (conversation  on  the 
subject. 

To  this  favour,  Mr.  Copperfield  innncdiutely  replied,  with  his  respectful  com- 
pliments, that  he  would  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  the  Misses  Sjjcniow,  at  the 
time  appointed  ;  accompanied,  in  accordance  with  their  kind  permission,  by  his 
friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  of  the  Inner  Temple.  Having  despatched  which  missive, 
Mr.  Copperfield  fell  into  a  condition  of  strong  nervous  agitation  ;  and  so  remained 
until  the  day  arrived. 

It  was  a  great  augmentation  of  my  uneasiness  to  be  bereaved,  at  this  eventful 
crisis,  of  the  inestimable  services  of  Miss  Mills.  Hut  Mr.  Mills,  who  was  always  doing 
something  or  other  to  annoy  me— or  I  felt  as  if  he  were,  which  was  the  same  thing — 
had  brought  his  conduct  to  a  climax,  by  taking  it  into  his  head  that  he  would  go  to 
India.  Why  should  he  go  to  India,  except  to  harass  me  ?  To  be  sure  he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  any  other  part  of  the  world,  and  liad  a  good  deal  to  do  with  that  part ; 
being  entirely  in  the  Indian  trade,  whatever  that  was  (I  had  floating  dreams  myself 
concerning  golden  shawls  and  ele{)hants'  teeth)  ;  having  been  at  Calcutta  in  his  youth  ; 
and  designing  now  to  go  out  there  again,  in  the  capacitj-  of  resident  partner.  But 
this  was  nothing  to  me.  However,  it  was  so  much  to  him  that  for  India  he  was 
bound,  and  Julia  with  him  ;  and  Julia  went  into  the  country  to  take  leave  of  her 
relations  ;  and  the  house  was  put  into  a  perfect  suit  of  bills,  announcing  that  it  was 
to  be  let  or  sold,  and  that  the  furniture  (mangle  and  all)  was  to  be  taken  at  a  valuation. 
So,  here  was  another  earthquake  of  which  I  became  the  sport,  before  I  had  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  its  predecessor  ! 

I  was  in  several  minds  how  to  dress  myself  on  the  important  day  ;  being  divided 
between  my  desire  to  appear  to  advantage,  and  my  apprehensions  of  putting  on 
anything  that  might  impair  my  severely  practical  character  in  the  eyes  of  the  Misses 
Spenlow.  I  endeavoured  to  hit  a  happy  medium  between  these  two  extremes  ;  my 
aunt  approved  the  result ;  and  Mr.  Dick  threw  one  of  his  shoes  after  Traddles  and 
me,  for  luck,  as  we  went  downstairs. 

Excellent  fellow  as  I  knew  Traddles  to  be,  and  warmly  attached  to  him  as  I  was, 
I  could  not  help  wishing,  on  that  delicate  occasion,  that  he  had  never  contracted  the 
habit  of  brushing  his  hair  so  very  upright.  It  gave  him  a  surprised  look — not  to 
say  a  hearth-broomy  kind  of  expression — which,  my  apprehensions  whispered,  might 
be  fatal  to  us. 

I  took  the  liberty  of  mentioning  it  to  Traddles,  as  we  were  walking  to  Putney  : 
and  saying  that  if  he  would  smooth  it  down  a  little 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Traddles,  lifting  off  his  hat,  and  rubbing  his  hair 
all  kinds  of  ways,  '  nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure.     But  it  won't.' 

'  Won't  be  smoothed  down  ?  '    said  I. 

'  No,'  said  Traddles.  '  Nothing  will  induce  it.  If  I  was  to  carry  a  half-hundred- 
weight upon  it,  all  the  way  to  Putney,  it  would  be  up  again  the  moment  the  weight 
was  taken  off.  You  have  no  idea  what  obstinate  hair  mine  is,  Copperfield.  I  am 
quite  a  fretful  porcupine.' 


384  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  was  a  little  disappointed,  I  must  confess,  but  thoroughly  charmed  by  his  good- 
nature too.  I  told  him  how  I  esteemed  his  good-nature  ;  and  said  that  his  hair  must 
have  taken  all  the  obstinacy  out  of  his  character,  for  he  had  none. 

'  Oh  !  '  returned  Traddles,  laughing,  '  I  assure  you  it 's  quite  an  old  story,  my 
unfortunate  hair.  My  uncle's  wife  couldn't  bear  it.  She  said  it  exasperated  her.  It 
stood  very  much  in  my  way,  too,  when  I  first  fell  in  love  with  Sophy.     Very  much  !  ' 

'  Did  she  object  to  it  ?  ' 

'  She  didn't,'  rejoined  Traddles  ;  '  but'  her  eldest  sister — the  one  that 's  the 
Beauty — quite  made  game  of  it,  I  understand.     In  fact,  all  the  sisters  laugh  at  it.' 

'  Agreeable  !  '   said  I. 

'  Yes,'  returned  Traddles  with  perfect  innocence,  '  it 's  a  joke  for  us.  They 
pretend  that  Sophy  has  a  lock  of  it  in  her  desk,  and  is  obliged  to  shut  it  in  a  clasped 
book  to  keep  it  down.     We  laugh  about  it.' 

'  By  the  bye,  my  dear  Traddles,'  said  I,  '  your  experience  may  suggest  something 
to  me.  When  you  became  engaged  to  the  young  lady  whom  you  have  just  mentioned, 
did  you  make  a  regular  proposal  to  her  family  ?  Was  there  anything  like — what  we 
are  going  through  to-day,  for  instance  ?  '    I  added,  nervously. 

'  Why,'  replied  Traddles,  on  whose  attentive  face  a  thoughtful  shade  had  stolen, 
'  it  was  rather  a  painful  transaction,  Copperfield,  in  my  case.  You  see,  Sophy  being 
of  so  much  use  in  the  family,  none  of  them  could  endure  the  thought  of  her  ever  being 
married.  Indeed,  they  had  quite  settled  among  themselves  that  she  never  was  to  be 
married,  and  they  called  her  the  old  maid.  Accordingly,  when  I  mentioned  it,  with 
the  greatest  precaution,  to  Mrs.  Crewler 

'  The  mamma  ?  '    said  I. 

'  The  mamma,'  said  Traddles — '  Reverend  Horace  Crewler — when  I  mentioned 
it  with  every  possible  precaution  to  Mrs.  Crewler,  the  effect  upon  her  was  such  that 
she  gave  a  scream  and  became  insensible.  I  couldn't  approach  the  subject  again,  for 
months.' 

'  You  did  at  last  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Well,  the  Reverend  Horace  did,'  said  Traddles.  '  He  is  an  excellent  man, 
most  exemplary  in  every  way  ;  and  he  pointed  out  to  her  that  she  ought,  as  a  Christian, 
to  reconcile  herself  to  the  sacrifice  (especially  as  it  was  so  uncertain),  and  to  bear  no 
uncharitable  feeling  towards  me.  As  to  myself,  Copperfield,  I  give  you  my  word,  I 
felt  a  perfect  bird  of  prey  towards  the  family.' 

'  The  sisters  took  your  part,  I  hope,  Traddles  ?  ' 

'  Why,  I  can't  say  they  did,'  he  returned.  '  When  we  had  comparatively  recon- 
ciled Mrs.  Crewler  to  it,  we  had  to  break  it  to  Sarah.  You  recollect  my  mentioning 
Sarah,  as  the  one  that  has  something  the  matter  with  her  spine  ?  ' 

'  Perfectly  !  ' 

'  She  clenched  both  her  hands,'  said  Traddles,  looking  at  me  in  dismay  ;  '  shut 
her  eyes  ;  turned  lead-colour  ;  became  perfectly  stiff ;  and  took  nothing  for  two  days 
but  toast-and-water,  administered  with  a  teaspoon.' 

'  What  a  very  unpleasant  girl,  Traddles  !  '    I  remarked. 

'  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Copperfield  !  '  said  Traddles.  '  She  is  a  very  charming 
girl,  but  she  has  a  great  deal  of  feeling.  In  fact,  they  all  have.  Sophy  told  me 
afterwards,  that  the  self-reproach  she  underwent  while  she  was  in  attendance  upon 
Sarah,  no  words  could  describe.  I  know  it  must  have  been  severe,  by  my  own  feelings, 
Copperfield  ;    which  were  like  a  criminal's.     After  Sarah  was  restored,  we  still  had 


DOHA'S  AUNTS  38.-; 

to  break  it  to  the  other  eight  ;  and  it  produced  various  effects  upon  them  of  a  most 
pathetic  nature.  The  two  little  ones,  whom  Sophy  educates,  have  only  just  left  off 
de-testing  inc.' 

'  At  any  rate,  they  are  all  reconciled  to  it  now,  I  hope  ?  '   said  I. 

'  Ye — yes,  I  should  say  they  were,  on  Ihe  whole  resigned  to  it,'  said  Traddles, 
doubtfully.  '  The  fact  is,  we  avoid  mentioning  the  subject ;  and  my  unsettled 
prospects  and  indifferent  circumstances  are  a  groat  consolation  to  them.  Tliere  will 
be  a  deplorable  scene,  whenever  we  are  married.  It  will  be  much  more  like  a  funeral 
than  u  wedding.     And  they  Ml  all  hate  me  for  taking  her  away  !  ' 

His  honest  face,  as  he  looked  at  me  with  a  serio-comic  shake  of  his  head,  impresses 
me  more  in  the  remembrance  than  it  did  in  the  reality,  for  I  was  by  this  time  in  a 
state  of  such  excessive  trepidation  and  wandering  of  mind,  as  to  be  quite  unable 
to  fix  my  attention  on  anything.  On  our  approaching  the  house  where  the  Misses 
Spenlow  lived,  I  was  at  such  a  discount  in  respect  of  my  personal  looks  and  presence 
of  mind,  that  Traddles  proposed  a  gentle  stimulant  in  the  form  of  a  glass  of  ale. 
This  having  been  administered  at  u  neighbouring  public-house,  he  conducted  me, 
with  tottering  steps,  to  the  Misses  Spenlows'  door. 

I  had  a  vague  sensation  of  being,  as  it  were,  on  view,  when  the  maid  opened  it ; 
and  of  wavering,  somehow,  across  a  hall  with  a  weather-glass  in  it,  into  a  quiet  little 
drawing-room  on  the  ground-floor,  commanding  a  neat  garden.  Also  of  sitting  down 
here,  on  a  sofa,  and  seeing  Traddles's  hair  start  up,  now  his  hat  was  removed,  like  one 
of  those  obtrusive  little  figures  made  of  springs,  that  fly  out  of  fictitious  snuff-boxes 
when  the  lid  is  taken  off.  Also  of  hearing  an  old-fashioned  clock  ticking  away  on 
the  chimney-piece,  and  trying  to  make  it  keep  time  to  the  jerking  of  my  heart, — 
which  it  wouldn't.  Also  of  looking  round  the  room  for  any  sign  of  Dora,  and  seeing 
none.  Also  of  thinking  that  Jip  once  barked  in  the  distance,  and  was  instantly  choked 
by  somebody.  Ultimately  I  found  myself  backing  Traddles  into  the  fireplace,  and 
bowing  in  great  confusion  to  two  dry  little  elderly  ladies,  dressed  in  black,  and  each 
looking  wonderfully  like  a  preparation  in  chip  or  tan  of  the  late  Mr.  Spenlow. 

'  Pray,'  said  one  of  the  two  little  ladies,  '  be  seated.' 

When  I  had  done  tumbling  over  Traddles,  and  had  sat  upon  something  which 
was  not  a  cat — my  first  seat  was — I  so  far  recovered  my  sight,  as  to  perceive  that  Mr. 
Spenlow  had  evidently  been  the  youngest  of  the  family  ;  that  there  was  a  disparity 
of  six  or  eight  years  between  the  two  sisters  ;  and  that  the  younger  appeared  to  be 
the  manager  of  the  conference,  inasmuch  as  she  had  my  letter  in  her  hand — so 
familiar  as  it  looked  to  me,  and  yet  so  odd  ! — and  was  referring  to  it  through  an  eye- 
glass. They  were  dressed  alike,  but  this  sister  wore  her  dress  with  a  more  youthful 
air  than  the  other  ;  and  perhaps  had  a  trifle  more  frill,  or  tucker,  or  brooch,  or  bracelet, 
or  some  little  thing  of  that  kind,  which  made  her  look  more  lively.  They  were  both 
upright  in  their  carriage,  formal,  precise,  composed,  and  quiet.  The  sister  who  had 
not  ray  letter,  had  her  arms  crossed  on  her  breast,  and  resting  on  each  other,  like  an  idol. 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  believe,'  said  the  sister  who  had  got  my  letter,  addressing 
herself  to  Traddles. 

This  was  a  frightful  beginning.  Traddles  had  to  indicate  that  I  was  Mr. 
Copperfield,  and  I  had  to  lay  claim  to  myself,  and  they  had  to  divest  themselves 
of  a  preconceived  opinion  that  Traddles  was  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  altogether  we 
were  in  a  nice  condition.  To  improve  it,  we  all  distinctly  heard  Jip  give  two  short 
barks,  and  receive  another  choke. 


o 


386  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Mr.  Copperfield  !  '    said  the  sister  with  the  letter. 

I  did  something — bowed,  I  suppose — and  was  all  attention,  when  the  other  sister 
struck  in. 

'  My  sister  Lavinia,'  said  she,  '  being  conversant  with  matters  of  this  nature, 
will  state  what  we  consider  most  calculated  to  promote  the  happiness  of  both  parties.' 
I  discovered  afterwards  that  Miss  Lavinia  was  an  authority  in  affairs  of  the 
heart,  by  reason  of  there  having  anciently  existed  a  certain  Mr.  Pidger,  who  played 
short  whist,  and  was  supposed  to  have  been  enamoured  of  her.  My  private  opinion 
is,  that  this  was  entirely  a  gratuitous  assumption,  and  that  Pidger  was  altogether 
innocent  of  any  such  sentiments — to  which  he  had  never  given  any  sort  of  expression 
that  I  could  ever  hear  of.  Both  Miss  Lavinia  and  Miss  Clarissa  had  a  superstition, 
however,  that  he  would  have  declared  his  passion,  if  he  had  not  been  cut  short  in  his 
youth  (at  about  sixty)  by  over-drinking  his  constitution,  and  over-doing  an  attempt 
to  set  it  right  again  by  swilling  Bath  water.  They  had  a  lurking  suspicion  even,  that 
he  died  of  secret  love  ;  though  I  must  say  there  was  a  picture  of  him  in  the  house 
with  a  damask  nose,  which  concealment  did  not  appear  to  have  ever  preyed  upon. 

'  We  will  not,'  said  Miss  Lavinia,  '  enter  on  the  past  history  of  this  matter.  Our 
poor  brother  Francis's  death  has  cancelled  that.' 

'  We  had  not,'  said  Miss  Clarissa,  '  been  in  the  habit  of  frequent  association  with 
our  brother  Francis  ;  but  there  was  no  decided  division  or  disunion  between  us. 
Francis  took  his  road  ;  we  took  ours.  We  considered  it  conducive  to  the  happiness 
of  all  parties  that  it  should  be  so.     And  it  was  so.' 

Each  of  the  sisters  leaned  a  little  forward  to  speak,  shook  her  head  after  speaking, 
and  became  upright  again  when  silent.  Miss  Clarissa  never  moved  her  arms.  She 
sometimes  played  tunes  upon  them  with  her  fingers — minuets  and  marches,  I  should 
think — but  never  moved  them. 

'  Our  niece's  position,  or  supposed  position,  is  much  changed  by  our  brother 
Francis's  death,'  said  Miss  Lavinia  ;  '  and  therefore  we  consider  our  brother's  opinions 
as  regarded  her  position  as  being  changed  too.  We  have  no  reason  to  doubt,  Mr. 
Copperfield,  that  you  are  a  young  gentleman  possessed  of  good  qualities  and  honourable 
character  ;  or  that  you  have  an  affection — or  are  fully  persuaded  that  you  have  an 
affection — for  our  niece.' 

I  replied,  as  I  usually  did  whenever  I  had  a  chance,  that  nobody  had  ever  loved 
anybody  else  as  I  loved  Dora.  Traddles  came  to  my  assistance  with  a  confirmatory 
murmur. 

Miss  Lavinia  was  going  on  to  make  some  rejoinder,  when  Miss  Clarissa,  who 
appeared  to  be  incessantly  beset  by  a  desire  to  refer  to  her  brother  Francis,  struck 
in  again — 

'  If  Dora's  mamma,'  she  said,  '  when  she  married  our  brother  Francis,  had  at 
once  said  that  there  was  not  room  for  the  family  at  the  dinner-table,  it  would  have 
been  better  for  the  happiness  of  all  parties.' 

'  Sister  Clarissa,'  said  Miss  Lavinia.  '  Perhaps  we  needn't  mind  that  now.' 
'  Sister  Lavinia,'  said  Miss  Clarissa,  '  it  belongs  to  the  subject.  With  your  branch 
of  the  subject,  on  which  alone  you  are  competent  to  speak,  I  should  not  think  of  inter- 
fering. On  this  branch  of  the  subject  I  have  a  voice  and  an  opinion.  It  would  have 
been  better  for  the  happiness  of  all  parties,  if  Dora's  mamma,  when  she  married 
our  brother  Francis,  had  mentioned  plainly  what  her  intentions  were.  We  should 
then  have  known  what  we  had  to  expect.     We  should  have  said  "  pray  do  not  invite 


DORA'S  AUNTS  887 

us,    at   any    time "  ;     and    nil     possibility    of    misunderstanding  would    have   been 
avoided.' 

When  Miss  Clarissa  had  shaken  her  head.  Miss  Lavinia  resumed  :  again  referring 
to  my  letter  through  her  eye-glass.  They  both  had  little  bright  round  twinkling 
eyes,  by  the  wiiy,  which  were  like  birds'  eyes.  They  were  not  unlike  birds,  altogether  ; 
having  a  sharp,  brisk,  sudden  manner,  and  a  little  short,  spruce  way  of  adjusting 
themselves,  like  canaries. 

Miss  I.avinia,  us  I  have  said,  resumed — 

'  You  ask  permission  of  my  sister  Clarissa  and  myself,  Mr.  Copperfieid,  to  visit 
here,  as  the  accepted  suitor  of  our  niece.' 

'  If  our  brother  Francis,'  said  Miss  Clarissa,  breaking  out  again,  if  I  may  call 
anything  so  calm  a  breaking  out,  '  wished  to  surround  himself  with  an  atmosphere  of 
Doctors'  Commons,  and  of  Doctors'  Commons  only,  what  right  or  desire  had  we  to 
object  ?  None,  I  am  sure.  We  have  ever  been  far  from  wishing  to  obtrude  ourselves 
on  any  one.  But  why  not  say  so  ?  Let  our  brother  Francis  and  his  wife  have  their 
society.  Let  my  sister  Lavinia  and  myself  have  our  society.  We  can  find  it  for 
ourselves,  I  hope  !  ' 

As  this  appeared  to  be  addressed  to  Traddles  and  me,  both  Traddles  and  I  made 
some  sort  of  reply.  Traddles  was  inaudible.  I  think  I  observed  myself,  that  it  was 
highly  creditable  to  all  concerned.     I  don't  in  the  least  know  what  I  meant. 

'  Sister  Lavinia,'  said  Miss  Clarissa,  having  now  relieved  her  mind,  '  you  can  go 
on,  my  dear.' 

Miss  Lavinia  proceeded — 

'  Mr.  Copperfieid,  my  sister  Clarissa  and  I  have  been  very  careful  indeed  in 
considering  this  letter  ;  and  we  have  not  considered  it  without  finally  showing  it 
to  our  niece,  and  discussing  it  with  our  niece.  We  have  no  doubt  that  you  think 
you  like  her  very  much.' 

'  Think,  ma'am,'  I  rapturously  began,  '  oh  ! ' 

But  Miss  Clarissa  giving  me  a  look  (just  like  a  sharp  canary),  as  requesting  that  I 
would  not  interrupt  the  oracle,  I  begged  pardon. 

'  Affection,'  said  Miss  Lavinia,  glancing  at  her  sister  for  corroboration,  which  she 
gave  in  the  form  of  a  little  nod  to  every  clause,  '  mature  affection,  homage,  devotion, 
does  not  easily  express  itself.  Its  voice  is  low.  It  is  modest  and  retiring,  it  lies  in 
ambush,  waits  and  waits.  Such  is  the  mature  fruit.  Sometimes  a  life  glides  away, 
and  finds  it  still  ripening  in  the  shade.' 

Of  course  I  did  not  understand  then  that  this  was  an  allusion  to  her  supposed 
experience  of  the  stricken  Pidger  ;  but  I  saw,  from  the  gravity  with  which  Miss 
Clarissa  nodded  her  head,  that  great  weight  was  attached  to  these  words. 

'  The  light — for  I  call  them,  in  comparison  with  such  sentiments,  the  hght — 
inclinations  of  very  young  people,'  pursued  Miss  Lavinia,  '  are  dust,  compared  to  rocks. 
It  is  owing  to  the  difficulty  of  knowing  whether  they  are  likely  to  endure  or  have  any 
real  foundation,  that  my  sister  Clarissa  and  myself  have  been  very  undecided  how  to 
act,  Mr.  Copperfieid,  and  Mr. ' 

'  Traddles,'  said  my  friend,  finding  himself  looked  at. 

'  I  beg  pardon.  Of  the  Inner  Temple,  I  believe  ?  '  said  Miss  Clarissa,  again 
glancing  at  my  letter. 

Traddles  said  '  Exactly  so,'  and  became  pretty  red  in  the  face. 

Now,  although  I  had  not  received  any  express  encouragement  as  yet,  I  fancied 


388  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

that  I  saw  in  the  two  little  sisters,  and  particularly  in  Miss  Lavinia,  an  intensified 
enjoyment  of  this  new  and  fruitful  subject  of  domestic  interest,  a  settling  down  to 
make  the  most  of  it,  a  disposition  to  pet  it,  in  which  there  was  a  good  bright  ray  of 
hope.  I  thought  I  perceived  that  Miss  Lavinia  would  have  uncommon  satisfaction 
in  superintending  two  young  lovers,  like  Dora  and  me  ;  and  that  Miss  Clarissa  would 
have  hardly  less  satisfaction  in  seeing  her  superintend  us,  and  in  chiming  in  with  her 
own  particular  department  of  the  subject  whenever  that  impulse  was  strong  upon  her. 
This  gave  me  courage  to  protest  most  vehemently  that  I  loved  Dora  better  than  I 
could  tell,  or  any  one  believe  ;  that  all  my  friends  knew  how  I  loved  her  ;  that  my 
aunt,  Agnes,  Traddles,  every  one  who  knew  me,  knew  how  I  loved  her,  and  how  earnest 
my  love  had  made  me.  For  the  truth  of  this,  I  appealed  to  Traddles.  And  Traddles, 
firing  up  as  if  he  were  plunging  into  a  Parliamentary  Debate,  really  did  come  out 
nobly  :  confirming  me  in  good  round  terms,  and  in  a  plain  sensible  practical  manner, 
that  evidently  made  a  favourable  impression. 

'  I  speak,  if  I  may  presume  to  say  so,  as  one  who  has  some  little  experience  of  siich 
things,'  said  Traddles,  '  being  myself  engaged  to  a  young  lady — one  of  ten,  down  in 
Devonshire — and  seeing  no  probability,  at  present,  of  our  engagement  coming  to  a 
termination.' 

'  You  may  be  able  to  confirm  what  I  have  said,  Mr.  Traddles,'  observed  Miss 
Lavinia,  evidently  taking  a  new  interest  in  him,  '  of  the  affection  that  is  modest  and 
retiring  ;   that  waits  and  waits  ?  ' 

'  Entirely,  ma'am,'  said  Traddles. 

Miss  Clarissa  looked  at  Miss  Lavinia,  and  shook  her  head  gravely.  Miss  Lavinia 
looked  consciously  at  Miss  Clarissa,  and  heaved  a  little  sigh. 

'  Sister  Lavinia,'  said  Miss  Clarissa,  '  take  my  smelling-bottle.' 

Miss  Lavinia  revived  herself  with  a  few  whiffs  of  aromatic  vinegar — Traddles  and  I 
looking  on  with  great  solicitude  the  while  ;  and  then  went  on  to  say,  rather  faintly — 

'  My  sister  and  myself  have  been  in  great  doubt,  Mr.  Traddles,  what  course  we 
ought  to  take  in  reference  to  the  likings,  or  imaginary  likings,  of  such  very  young 
people  as  your  friend  Mr.  Copperfield  and  our  niece.' 

'  Our  brother  Francis's  child,'  remarked  Miss  Clarissa.  '  If  our  brother  Francis's 
wife  had  found  it  convenient  in  her  lifetime  (though  she  had  an  unquestionable  right 
to  act  as  she  thought  best)  to  invite  the  family  to  her  dinner-table,  we  might  have 
known  our  brother  Francis's  child  better  at  the  present  moment.  Sister  Lavinia, 
proceed.' 

Miss  Lavinia  turned  my  letter,  so  as  to  bring  the  superscription  towards  herself, 
and  referred  through  her  eye-glass  at  some  orderly  looking  notes  she  had  made  on 
that  part  of  it. 

'  It  seems  to  us,'  said  she,  '  prudent,  Mr.  Traddles,  to  bring  these  feelings  to  the 
test  of  our  own  observation.  At  present  we  know  nothing  of  them,  and  are  not  in  a 
situation  to  judge  how  much  reality  there  may  be  in  them.  Therefore  we  are  inclined 
so  far  to  accede  to  Mr.  Copperiield's  proposal,  as  to  admit  his  visits  here.' 

'  I  shall  never,  dear  ladies,'  I  exclaimed,  relieved  of  an  immense  load  of  appre- 
hension, '  forget  your  kindness  !  ' 

'  But,'  pursued  Miss  Lavinia, — '  but,  we  would  prefer  to  regard  those  visits, 
Mr.  Traddles,  as  made,  at  present,  to  us.  We  must  guard  ourselves  from  recognising 
any  positive  engagement  between  Mr.  Copperfield  and  our  niece,  until  we  have  had 
an  opportunity ' 


DORA'S  AUNTS  889 

'  Until  you  have  had  an  opportunity,  sister  Lavinia,'  said  Miss  Clarissa. 

'  He  it  so,'  assented  Miss  Lavinia,  with  a  sigh — '  until  I  have  had  an  opportunity 
of  observing  them.' 

'  Copperfield,'  said  Traddies,  turning  to  me,  '  you  feel,  I  am  sure,  that  nothing 
could  be  more  reasonable  or  considerate.' 

'  Nothing  !  '    eried  I.     '  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  it.' 

'  In  this  position  of  affairs,'  said  Miss  Lavinia,  again  referring  to  her  notes,  '  and 
admitting  his  visits  on  this  understanding  only,  we  must  require  from  Mr.  Copper- 
field  a  distinct  assurance,  on  his  word  of  honour,  that  no  communication  of  any 
kind  shall  take  place  between  him  and  our  niece  without  our  knowledge.  That  no 
project  whatever  shall  be  entertained  with  regard  to  our  niece,  without  being  first 
submitted  to  us ' 

'  To  you,  sister  Lavinia,'  Miss  Clarissa  interposed. 

'  Be  it  so,  Clarissa  !  '  assented  Miss  Lavinia  resignedly — '  to  me — and  receiving 
our  concurrence.  We  must  make  this  a  most  express  and  serious  stipulation,  not  to 
be  broken  on  any  account.  We  wished  Mr.  Copperfield  to  be  accompanied  by  some 
confidential  friend  to-day,'  with  an  inclination  of  her  head  towards  Traddies,  who 
bowed,  '  in  order  that  there  might  be  no  doubt  or  misconception  on  this  subject.  If 
Mr.  Copperfield,  or  if  you,  Mr.  Traddies,  feel  the  least  scruple,  in  giving  this  promise, 
I  beg  you  to  take  time  to  consider  it.' 

I  exclaimed,  in  a  state  of  high  ecstatic  fervour,  that  not  a  moment's  consideration 
could  be  necessary.  I  bound  myself  by  the  required  promise,  in  a  most  impassioned 
manner  ;  called  upon  Traddies  to  witness  it  ;  and  denounced  myself  as  the  most 
atrocious  of  characters  if  I  ever  swerved  from  it  in  the  least  degree. 

'  Stay  !  '  said  Miss  Lavinia,  holding  up  her  hand  ;  '  we  resolved,  before  we  had 
the  pleasure  of  receiving  you  two  gentlemen,  to  leave  you  alone  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  to  consider  this  point.     You  will  allow  us  to  retire.' 

It  was  in  vain  for  me  to  say  that  no  consideration  was  necessary.  They  persisted 
in  withdrawing  for  the  specified  time.  Accordingly,  these  little  birds  hopped  out 
with  great  dignity ;  leaving  me  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  Traddies,  and  to  feel 
as  if  I  were  translated  to  regions  of  exquisite  happiness.  Exactly  at  the  expiration 
of  the  quarter  of  an  hour,  they  reappeared  with  no  less  dignity  than  they  had  dis- 
appeared. They  had  gone  rustling  away  as  if  their  little  dresses  were  made  of  autumn- 
leaves  :  and  they  came  rustling  back,  in  like  manner. 

I  then  bound  myself  once  more  to  the  prescribed  conditions. 

'  Sister  Clarissa,'  said  Miss  Lavinia,  '  the  rest  is  with  you.' 

Miss  Clarissa,  unfolding  her  arms  for  the  first  time,  took  the  notes  and  glanced  at 
them. 

'  We  shall  be  happy,'  said  Miss  Clarissa,  '  to  see  Mr.  Copperfield  to  dinner,  every 
Sunday,  if  it  should  suit  his  convenience.     Our  hour  is  three.' 

I  bowed. 

'  In  the  course  of  the  week,'  said  IMiss  Clarissa,  '  we  shall  be  happy  to  see  Mr. 
Copperfield  to  tea.     Our  hour  is  half-past  six.' 

I  bowed  again. 

'  Twice  in  the  week,'  said  Miss  Clarissa,  '  but,  as  a  rule,  not  oftener.' 

I  bowed  again. 

'  Miss  Trotwood,'  said  Miss  Clarissa,  '  mentioned  in  Mr.  Copperfield's  letter,  will 
perhaps  call  upon  us.     When  visiting  is  better  for  the  happiness  of  all  parties,  we  are 


390  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

glad  to  receive  visits,  and  retiirn  them.  When  it  is  better  for  the  happiness  of  all 
parties  that  no  visiting  should  take  place  (as  in  the  case  of  our  brother  Francis,  and  his 
establishment),  that  is  quite  different.' 

I  intimated  that  my  aunt  would  be  proud  and  delighted  to  make  their  acquaint- 
ance ;  though  I  must  say  I  was  not  quite  sure  of  their  getting  on  very  satisfactorily 
together.  The  conditions  being  now  closed,  I  expressed  my  acknowledgments  in  the 
warmest  manner  ;  and,  taking  the  hand,  first  of  Miss  Clarissa,  and  then  of  Miss 
Lavinia,  pressed  it,  in  each  case,  to  my  lips. 

Miss  Lavinia  then  arose,  and  begging  Mr.  Traddles  to  excuse  us  for  a  minute, 
requested  me  to  follow  her.  I  obeyed,  all  in  a  tremble,  and  was  conducted  into  another 
room.  There,  I  found  my  blessed  darling  stopping  her  ears  behind  the  door,  with  her 
dear  little  face  against  the  wall ;  and  Jip  in  the  plate-warmer  with  his  head  tied  up 
in  a  towel. 

Oh  !  How  beautiful  she  was  in  her  black  frock,  and  how  she  sobbed  and  cried 
at  first,  and  wouldn't  come  out  from  behind  the  door  !  How  fond  we  were  of  one 
another,  when  she  did  come  out  at  last ;  and  what  a  state  of  bliss  I  was  in,  when  we 
took  Jip  out  of  the  plate-warmer,  and  restored  him  to  the  light,  sneezing  very  much, 
and  were  all  three  reunited  ! 

'  Mj'  dearest  Dora  !     Now,  indeed,  my  own  for  ever  !  ' 

'  Oh  don't  !  '   pleaded  Dora.     '  Please  !  ' 

'  Are  you  not  my  own  for  ever,  Dora  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes,  of  course  I  am  !  '   cried  Dora,  '  but  I  am  so  frightened  !  ' 

'  Frightened,  my  own  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes  !   I  don't  like  him,'  said  Dora.     '  Why  don't  he  go  ?  ' 

'  Who,  my  life  ?  ' 

'  Your  friend,'  said  Dora.     '  It  isn't  any  business  of  his.     What  a  stupid  he  must  be  1 ' 

'  My  love  !  '  (There  never  was  anything  so  coaxing  as  her  childish  ways.)  '  He 
is  the  best  creature  !  ' 

'  Oh,  but  we  don't  want  any  best  creatures  !  '   pouted  Dora. 

'  My  dear,'  I  argued,  '  you  will  soon  know  him  well,  and  like  him  of  all  things. 
And  here  is  my  aunt  coming  soon  ;  and  you  '11  like  her  of  all  things  too,  when  you 
know  her.' 

'  No,  please  don't  bring  her  !  '  said  Dora,  giving  me  a  horrified  little  kiss,  and 
folding  her  hands.  '  Don't.  I  know  she  's  a  naughty,  mischief -making  old  thing ! 
Don't  let  her  come  here,  Doady  !  '   which  was  a  corruption  of  David. 

Remonstrance  was  of  no  use,  then  ;  so  I  laughed,  and  admired,  and  was  very 
much  in  love  and  very  happy  ;  and  she  showed  me  Jip's  new  trick  of  standing  on  his 
hind-legs  in  a  corner — which  he  did  for  about  the  space  of  a  flash  of  lightning,  and 
then  fell  down — and  I  don't  know  how  long  I  should  have  stayed  there,  oblivious  of 
Traddles,  if  Miss  Lavinia  had  not  come  in  to  take  me  away.  Miss  Lavinia  was  very 
fond  of  Dora  (she  told  me  Dora  was  exactly  like  what  she  had  been  herself  at  her  age — 
she  must  have  altered  a  good  deal),  and  she  treated  Dora  just  as  if  she  had  been  a  toy. 
I  wanted  to  persuade  Dora  to  come  and  see  Traddles,  but  on  my  proposing  it  she  ran 
off  to  her  own  room,  and  locked  herself  in  ;  so  I  went  to  Traddles  without  her,  and 
walked  away  with  him  on  air. 

'  Nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory,'  said  Traddles  ;  '  and  they  are  very  agree- 
able old  ladies,  I  am  sure.  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  you  were  to  be  married 
years  before  me,  Copperfield.' 


DORA'S  AUNTS  891 

'  Docs  your  Sophy  pljiy  on  ;iiiy  instrument,  Traddles  '!  '  I  inquired,  in  f  Ijc  jjridc 
of  my  heart. 

'  She  knows  enough  of  the  piano  to  teach  it  to  her  little  sisters,'  said  Traddles. 

'  Does  she  sing  at  Jill  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  Why,  slic  sings  buliads,  sometimes,  to  freshen  up  the  others  a  little  when  they  're 
out  of  spirits,'  said  Traddles.     '  Nothing  scientific.' 

'  She  doesn't  sing  to  the  guitar  V  '    said  I. 

'  Oh  dear  no  !  '    said  Traddles. 

♦  Paint  at  all  ?  ' 

'  Not  at  all,'  said  Traddles. 

I  promised  Traddles  that  he  should  hear  Dora  sing,  and  see  some  of  her  flower- 
painting.  He  said  he  should  like  it  very  much,  and  we  went  home  arm-in-arm  in 
great  good-humour  and  delight.  I  encouraged  him  to  talk  about  Sophy,  on  the  way  ; 
which  he  did  with  a  loving  reliance  on  her  that  I  very  much  admired.  I  compared 
her  in  my  mind  with  Dora,  with  considerable  inward  satisfaction  ;  but  I  candidly 
admitted  to  myself  that  she  seemed  to  be  an  excellent  kind  of  girl  for  Traddles,  too. 

Of  course  my  aimt  was  immediately  made  acquainted  with  the  successful  issue  of 
the  conference,  and  with  all  that  had  been  said  and  done  in  the  course  of  it.  She 
was  happy  to  see  me  so  happy,  and  promised  to  call  on  Dora's  aunts  without  loss 
of  time.  But  she  took  such  a  long  walk  up  and  down  our  rooms  that  night,  while  I 
was  writing  to  Agnes,  that  I  began  to  think  she  meant  to  walk  till  morning. 

My  letter  to  Agnes  was  a  fervent  and  grateful  one,  narrating  all  the  good  effects 
that  had  resulted  from  my  following  her  advice.  She  ^vrote,  by  return  of  post,  to  me. 
Her  letter  was  hopeful,  earnest,  and  cheerful.     She  was  always  cheerful  from  that  time. 

I  had  my  hands  more  full  than  ever,  now.  M}'  daily  journeys  to  Highgate  con- 
sidered. Putney  was  a  long  way  off ;  and  I  naturally  wanted  to  go  there  as  often  as  I 
could.  The  proposed  tea-drinkings  being  quite  impracticable,  I  compounded  with 
Miss  Lavinia  for  permission  to  visit  every  Saturday  afternoon,  without  detriment  to 
my  privileged  Sundays.  So,  the  close  of  every  week  was  a  delicious  time  for  me ; 
and  I  got  through  the  rest  of  the  week  by  looking  forward  to  it. 

I  was  wonderfully  relieved  to  find  that  my  aunt  and  Dora's  aunts  rubbed  on, 
all  things  considered,  much  more  smoothly  than  I  could  have  expected.  My  aunt 
made  her  promised  visit  within  a  few  days  of  the  conference ;  and  within  a  few  more 
days,  Dora's  aunts  called  upon  her,  in  due  state  and  form.  Similar  but  more  friendly 
exchanges  took  place  afterwards,  usually  at  intervals  of  three  or  four  weeks.  I  know 
that  my  aunt  distressed  Dora's  aunts  very  much,  by  utterly  setting  at  naught  the 
dignity  of  fly-conveyance,  and  walking  out  to  Putney  at  extraordinary  times,  as 
shortly  after  breakfast  or  just  before  tea  ;  likewise  by  wearing  her  bonnet  in  any 
manner  that  happened  to  be  comfortable  to  her  head,  without  at  all  deferring  to  the 
prejudices  of  civilisation  on  that  subject.  But  Dora's  aunts  soon  agreed  to  regard 
my  aunt  as  an  eccentric  and  somewhat  masculine  lady,  with  a  strong  understanding  ; 
and  although  my  aunt  occasionally  ruffled  the  feathers  of  Dora's  aunts,  by  expressing 
heretical  opinions  on  various  points  of  ceremony,  she  loved  me  too  well  not  to  sacrifice 
some  of  her  little  peculiarities  to  the  general  harmony. 

The  only  member  of  our  small  society,  who  positively  refused  to  adapt  himself  to 
circumstances,  was  Jip.  He  never  saw  my  aimt  without  immediately  displaying  every 
tooth  in  his  head,  retiring  under  a  chair,  and  growling  incessantly  :  with  now  and 
then  a  doleful  howl,  as  if  she  really  were  too  much  for  his  feelings.     All  kinds  of  treat- 


392  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

ment  were  tried  with  him — coaxing,  scolding,  slapping,  bringing  him  to  Buckingham 
Street  (where  he  instantly  dashed  at  the  two  cats,  to  the  terror  of  all  beholders) ;  but 
he  never  could  prevail  upon  himself  to  bear  my  aunt's  society.  He  would  sometimes 
think  he  had  got  the  better  of  his  objection,  and  be  aimable  for  a  few  minutes  ;  and 
then  would  put  his  snub-nose,  and  howl  to  that  extent,  that  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  blind  him  and  put  him  in  the  plate-warmer.  At  length,  Dora  regularly  muffled 
him  in  a  towel  and  shut  him  up  there,  whenever  my  aunt  was  reported  at  the  door. 

One  thing  troubled  me  much,  after  we  had  fallen  into  this  quiet  train.  It  was, 
that  Dora  seemed  by  one  consent  to  be  regarded  like  a  pretty  toy  or  plaything.  My 
aunt,  with  whom  she  gradually  became  familiar,  always  called  her  Little  Blossom  ; 
and  the  pleasure  of  Miss  Lavinia's  life  was  to  wait  upon  her,  curl  her  hair,  make 
ornaments  for  her,  and  treat  her  like  a  pet  child.  What  Miss  Lavinia  did,  her  sister 
did  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was  very  odd  to  me  ;  but  they  all  seemed  to  treat  Dora, 
in  her  degree,  much  as  Dora  treated  Jip  in  his. 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  Dora  about  this  ;  and  one  day  when  we  were 
out  walking  (for  we  were  licensed  by  Miss  Lavinia,  after  a  while,  to  go  out  walking 
by  ourselves),  I  said  to  her  that  I  wished  she  could  get  them  to  behave  towards  her 
differently. 

'  Because  you  know,  my  darling,'  I  remonstrated,  '  you  are  not  a  child.' 

'  There  !  '   said  Dora.     '  Now  you  're  going  to  be  cross  !  ' 

'  Cross,  my  love  ?  ' 

'  I  am  sure  they  're  very  kind  to  me,'  said  Dora,  '  and  I  am  very  happy.' 

'  Well  !  But,  my  dearest  life  !  '  said  I,  '  you  might  be  very  happy,  and  yet  be 
treated  rationally.' 

Dora  gave  me  a  reproachful  look — the  prettiest  look  ! — and  then  began  to  sob, 
saying,  if  I  didn't  like  her,  why  had  I  ever  wanted  so  much  to  be  engaged  to  her  ? 
And  why  didn't  I  go  away  now,  if  I  couldn't  bear  her  ? 

What  could  I  do,  but  kiss  away  her  tears,  and  tell  her  how  I  doted  on  her,  after 
that  ! 

'  I  am  sure  I  am  very  affectionate,'  said  Dora  ;  '  you  oughtn't  to  be  cruel  to  me, 
Doady  !  ' 

'  Cruel,  my  precious  love  !  As  if  I  would — or  could — be  cruel  to  you,  for  the 
world  !  ' 

'  Then  don't  find  fault  with  me,'  said  Dora,  making  a  rose-bud  of  her  mouth  ; 
'  and  I  '11  be  good.' 

I  was  charmed  by  her  presently  asking  me,  of  her  own  accord,  to  give  her  that 
Cookery  Book  I  had  once  spoken  of,  and  to  show  her  how  to  keep  accounts,  as  I  had 
once  promised  I  would.  I  brought  the  volume  with  me  on  my  next  visit  (I  got  it 
prettily  bound,  first,  to  make  it  look  less  dry  and  more  inviting)  ;  and  as  we  strolled 
about  the  Common,  I  showed  her  an  old  housekeeping-book  of  my  aimt's,  and  gave 
her  a  set  of  tablets,  and  a  pretty  little  pencil-case,  and  box  of  leads,  to  practise  house- 
keeping with. 

But  the  Cookery  Book  made  Dora's  head  ache,  and  the  figures  made  her  cry. 
They  wouldn't  add  up,  she  said.  So  she  rubbed  them  out,  and  drew  little  nosegays, 
and  likenesses  of  me  and  .lip,  all  over  the  tablets. 

Then  I  playfully  tried  verbal  instruction  in  domestic  matters,  as  we  walked  about 
on  a  Saturday  afternoon.  Sometimes,  for  example,  when  we  passed  a  butcher's  shop, 
I  would  say — 


MISCITTEF  898 

'  Now  suppose,  my  pet,  thut  we  were  married,  and  you  were  going  to  Iniy  a 
shoulder  of  mutton  for  dinner,  would  you  know  how  to  buy  it  ?  ' 

My  pretty  little  Dora's  face  would  fall,  and  she  would  make  her  mouth  into  a 
hud  again,  as  if  she  would  very  much  prefer  to  shut  mine  with  a  kiss. 

'  Would  you  know  liow  to  buy  it,  my  darling  ?  '  I  would  repeat,  perhaps,  if  I 
were  very  inflexible. 

Dora  would  think  a  little,  and  then  reply,  perhaps,  with  great  triumph — 

'  Why,  the  butcher  would  know  how  to  sell  it,  and  what  need  /  know  ?  Oh, 
you  silly  boy  !  ' 

So,  when  I  once  asked  Dora,  with  an  eye  to  the  Cookery  Book,  what  she  wc>uld 
do,  if  we  were  married,  and  I  were  to  «ay  I  should  like  a  nice  Irish  stew,  she  replied 
that  she  would  tell  the  servant  to  make  it  ;  and  then  clapped  her  little  liands  together 
across  my  arm,  and  laughed  in  such  a  charming  manner  that  she  was  more  delightful 
than  ever. 

Consequently,  the  principal  use  to  which  the  Cookery  Book  was  devoted,  was 
being  put  down  in  the  corner  for  Jip  to  stand  upon.  But  Dora  was  so  pleased,  when 
she  had  trained  him  to  stand  upon  it  without  offering  to  come  off,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  hold  the  pencil-case  in  his  mouth,  that  I  was  very  glad  I  had  bouf,'ht  it. 

And  we  fell  back  on  the  guitar-case,  and  the  flower-painting,  and  the  songs  about 
never  leaving  off  dancing,  Ta  ra  la  !  and  were  as  happy  as  the  week  was  long.  I 
occasionally  wished  I  could  venture  to  hint  to  Miss  Lavinia,  that  she  treated  the 
darling  of  my  heart  a  little  too  much  like  a  plaything  ;  and  I  sometimes  awoke,  as  it 
were,  wondering  to  find  that  I  had  fallen  into  the  general  fault,  and  treated  her  like  a 
plaything  too — but  not  often. 


CHAPTER    XLII 

MISCHIEF 

I  FEEL  as  if  it  were  not  for  me  to  record,  even  though  this  manuscript  is  in- 
tended for  no  eyes  but  mine,  how  hard  I  worked  at  that  tremendous  short- 
hand, and  all  improvement  appertaining  to  it,  in  my  sense  of  responsi- 
bility to  Dora  and  her  aunts.  I  will  only  add,  to  what  I  have  already 
written  of  my  perseverance  at  this  time  of  my  life,  and  of  a  patient  and  con- 
tinuous energy  which  then  began  to  be  matured  within  me,  and  which  I  know 
to  be  the  strong  part  of  my  character,  if  it  have  any  strength  at  all,  that  there, 
on  looking  back,  I  find  the  source  of  my  success.  I  have  been  very  fortunate 
in  worldly  matters ;  many  men  have  worked  much  harder,  and  not  succeeded 
half  so  well  ;  but  I  never  could  have  done  what  I  have  done,  without  the  habits  of 
punctuality,  order,  and  diligence,  without  the  determination  to  concentrate  myself 
on  one  object  at  a  time,  no  matter  how  quickly  its  successor  should  come  upon  its 
heels,  which  I  then  formed.  Heaven  knows  I  write  this,  in  no  spirit  of  self  lauda- 
tion. The  man  who  reviews  his  own  life,  as  I  do  mine,  in  going  on  here,  from  page  to 
page,  had  need  to  have  been  a  good  man  indeed,  if  he  would  be  spared  the  sharp 
consciousness  of  many  talents  neglected,  many  opportunities  wasted,  many  erratic 
and  perverted  feelings  constantly  at  war  within  his  breast,  and  defeating  him.     I 

n2 


394  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

do  not  hold  one  natural  gift,  I  dare  say,  that  I  have  not  abused.  My  meaning  simply 
is,  that  whatever  I  have  tried  to  do  in  life,  I  have  tried  with  all  my  heart  to  do  well  ; 
that  whatever  I  have  devoted  myself  to,  I  have  devoted  myself  to  completely  ;  that 
in  great  aims  and  in  small,  I  have  always  been  thoroughly  in  earnest.  I  have  never 
believed  it  possible  that  any  natural  or  improved  ability  can  claim  immunity  from 
the  companionship  of  the  steady,  plain,  hard-working  qualities,  and  hope  to  gain  its 
end.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  such  fulfilment  on  this  earth.  Some  happy  talent, 
and  some  fortunate  opportunity,  may  form  the  two  sides  of  the  ladder  on  which  some 
men  mount,  but  the  rounds  of  that  ladder  must  be  made  of  stuff  to  stand  wear  and 
tear  ;  and  there  is  no  substitute  for  thorough-going,  ardent,  and  sincere  earnestness. 
Never  to  put  one  hand  to  anything,  on  which  I  could  throw  my  whole  self  ;  and  never 
to  affect  depreciation  of  my  work,  whatever  it  was  ;  I  find,  now,  to  have  been  my 
golden  rules. 

How  much  of  the  practice  I  have  just  reduced  to  precept,  I  owe  to  Agnes,  I  will 
not  repeat  here.     My  narrative  proceeds  to  Agnes,  with  a  thankful  love. 

She  came  on  a  visit  of  a  fortnight  to  the  Doctor's.  Mr.  Wickfield  was  the  Doctor's 
old  friend,  and  the  Doctor  wished  to  talk  with  him,  and  do  him  good.  It  had  been 
matter  of  conversation  with  Agnes  when  she  was  last  in  town,  and  this  visit  was  the 
result.  She  and  her  father  came  together.  I  was  not  much  surprised  to  hear  from 
her  that  she  had  engaged  to  find  a  lodging  in  the  neighbourhood  for  Mrs.  Heep,  whose 
rheumatic  complaint  required  change  of  air,  and  who  would  be  charmed  to  have  it 
in  such  company.  Neither  was  I  surprised  when,  on  the  very  next  day,  Uriah,  like 
a  dutiful  son,  brought  his  worthy  mother  to  take  possession. 

'  You  see,  Master  Copperfield,'  said  he,  as  he  forced  himself  upon  my  company 
for  a  turn  in  the  Doctor's  garden,  '  where  a  person  loves,  a  person  is  a  little  jealous — 
leastways,  anxious  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  beloved  one.' 

'  Of  whom  are  you  jealous,  now  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Thanks  to  you.  Master  Copperfield,'  he  returned,  '  of  no  one  in  particular  just 
at  present — no  male  person,  at  least.' 

'  Do  j'ou  mean  that  you  are  jealous  of  a  female  person  ?  ' 

He  gave  me  a  sidelong  glance  out  of  his  sinister  red  eyes,  and  laughed. 

'  Really,  Master  Copperfield,'  he  said,  ' — I  should  say  Mister,  but  I  know  you  'U 
excuse  the  abit  I  've  got  into — you  're  so  insinuating,  that  you  draw  me  like  a  cork- 
screw !  Well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,'  putting  his  fish-like  hand  on  mine,  '  I  'm  not 
a  lady's  man  in  general,  sir,  and  I  never  was,  with  Mrs.  Strong.' 

His  eyes  looked  green  now,  as  they  watched  mine  with  a  rascally  cunning, 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  '    said  I. 

'  ^Vhy,  though  I  am  a  lawyer.  Master  Copperfield,'  he  replied,  with  a  dry  grin, 
'  I  mean,  just  at  present,  what  I  say.' 

'  And  what  do  you  mean  by  your  look  ?  '   I  retorted,  quietly. 

'  By  my  look  ?  Dear  me,  Copperfield,  that 's  sharp  practice  !  What  do  I  mean 
by  my  look  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  I.     '  By  your  look.' 

He  seemed  very  much  amused,  and  laughed  as  heartily  as  it  was  in  his  nature 
to  laugh.  After  some  scraping  of  his  chin  with  his  hand,  he  went  on  to  say,  with  his 
eyes  cast  downward — still  scraping,  very  slowly — 

'  When  I  was  but  a  numble  clerk,  she  always  looked  down  upon  me.  She  was 
for  ever  having  my  Agnes  backwards  and  forwards  at  her  ouse,  and  she  was  for  ever 


MTSCFIIEF  :iU5 

being  a  friend  to  you,  Master  Copperfield  ;  hut  I  was  too  far  beneath  her,  myself,  to 
be  noticed.' 

'  Well  ?  '    said  I  ;    '  suppose  you  were  !  ' 

'  — And  beneath  him  too,'  pursued  Uriah,  vtry  distinctly,  and  in  a  meditative 
tone  of  voice,  as  he  continued  to  scrape  his  chin. 

'  Don't  you  know  the  Doctor  better,'  said  I,  '  than  to  suppose  him  conscious  of 
your  existence,  when  you  were  not  before  him  ?  ' 

He  directed  his  eyes  at  me  in  that  sidelong  glance  again,  and  he  made  his  face 
very  lantern-jawed,  for  the  greater  convenience  of  scraping,  as  he  answered — 

'  Oh  dear,  1  am  not  referring  to  the  Doctor  !  Oh  no,  poor  man  I  1  mean  Mr. 
Maldon  !  ' 

My  heart  quite  died  within  me.  All  my  old  doubts,  and  ajiprchcnsions  on  that 
subject,  all  the  Doctor's  happiness  and  peace,  all  the  mingled  possibilities  of  innocence 
and  compromise,  that  1  could  not  uiu-avel,  I  saw,  in  a  moment,  at  the  mercy  of  this 
fellow's  twisting. 

'  He  never  could  come  into  the  office,  without  ordering  and  shoving  me  about,' 
said  Uriah.  '  One  of  your  fine  gentlemen  he  was  !  I  was  very  meek  and  umble — 
and  I  am.     But  I  didn't  like  that  sort  of  thing — and  I  don't  !  ' 

He  left  off  scraping  his  cliin,  and  sucked  in  his  cheeks  until  they  seemed  to  meet 
inside  ;    keeping  his  sidelong  glance  upon  me  all  the  while. 

'  She  is  one  of  your  lovely  women,  she  is,'  he  pursued,  when  he  had  slowly  restored 
his  face  to  its  natural  form  ;  '  and  ready  to  be  no  friend  to  such  as  me,  /  know. 
She  's  just  the  person  as  would  put  my  Agnes  up  to  higher  sort  of  game.  Now,  I 
ain't  one  of  your  lady's  men.  Master  Copperfield  ;  but  I  've  had  eyes  in  my  ed,  a 
pretty  long  time  back.  We  umble  ones  have  got  eyes,  mostly  speaking — and  we 
look  out  of  'em.' 

I  endeavomcd  to  appear  unconscious  and  not  disquieted,  but,  I  saw  in  his  face, 
with  poor  success. 

'  Now,  I  'm  not  a  going  to  let  myself  be  run  down,  Copperfield,'  he  continued, 
raising  that  part  of  his  countenance,  where  his  red  eye-brows  would  have  been  if  he 
had  had  any,  with  malignant  triumph,  '  and  I  shall  do  what  I  can  to  put  a  stop  to 
this  friendship.  I  don't  approve  of  it.  I  don't  mind  acknowledging  to  you  that 
I  've  got  rather  a  grudging  disposition,  and  want  to  keep  off  all  intruders.  I  ain't 
a  going,  if  I  know  it,  to  run  the  risk  of  being  plotted  against.' 

'  You  are  always  plotting,  and  delude  yourself  into  the  belief  that  everybody  else 
is  doing  the  like.  I  think,'  said  I. 

'  Perhaps  so.  Master  Copperfield,'  he  replied.  '  But  I  've  got  a  motive,  as  my 
fellow-partner  used  to  say  ;  and  I  go  at  it  tooth  and  nail.  I  mustn't  be  put  upon, 
as  a  numble  jierson,  too  much.  I  can't  allow  people  in  my  way.  Really  they  must 
come  out  of  the  cart.  Master  Copperfield  !  ' 

'  I  don't  understand  you,'  said  I. 

'  Don't  you,  though  ?  '  he  returned,  with  one  of  his  jerks.  '  I  'm  astonished  at 
that,  Master  Copperfield,  you  being  usually  so  quick  !  I  'II  try  to  be  plainer,  another 
time. — Is  that  Mr.  INIaldon  a-norseback,  ringing  at  the  gate,  sir  ?  ' 

'  It  looks  like  him,'  I  replied,  as  carelessly  as  I  could. 

Uriah  stopped  short,  put  his  hands  between  his  great  knobs  of  knees,  and  doubled 
himself  up  with  laughter.  With  perfectly  silent  laughter.  Not  a  sound  escaped  from 
him.     I  was  so  repelled  by  his  odious  behaviour,   particularly  by  this  concluding 


396  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

instance,  that  I  turned  away  without  any  ceremony  ;  and  left  him  doubled  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  garden,  like  a  scarecrow  in  want  of  support. 

It  was  not  on  that  evening  ;  but,  as  I  well  remember,  on  the  next  evening  but 
one,  which  was  a  Saturday  ;  that  I  took  Agnes  to  see  Dora.  I  had  arranged  the 
visit,  beforehand,  with  Miss  Lavinia  ;    and  Agnes  was  expected  to  tea. 

I  was  in  a  flutter  of  pride  and  anxiety  ;  pride  in  my  dear  little  betrothed,  and 
anxiety  that  Agnes  should  like  her.  All  the  way  to  Putney,  Agnes  being  inside  the 
stage-coach,  and  I  outside,  I  pictured  Dora  to  myself  in  every  one  of  the  pretty 
looks  I  knew  so  well ;  now  making  up  my  mind  that  I  should  like  her  to  look  exactly 
as  she  looked  at  such  a  time,  and  then  doubting  whether  I  should  not  prefer  her 
looking  as  she  looked  at  such  another  time  ;  and  almost  worrying  myself  into  a 
feverabout  it. 

I  was  troubled  by  no  doubt  of  her  being  very  pretty,  in  any  case  ;  but  it  fell  out 
that  I  had  never  seen  her  look  so  well.  She  was  not  in  the  drawing-room  when  I 
presented  Agnes  to  her  little  aunts,  but  was  shyly  keeping  out  of  the  way.  I  knew 
where  to  look  for  her,  now  ;  and  sure  enough  I  found  her  stopping  her  ears  again, 
behind  the  same  dull  old  door. 

At  first  she  wouldn't  come  at  all  ;  and  then  she  pleaded  for  five  minutes  by  my 
watch.  When  at  length  she  put  her  arm  through  mine,  to  be  taken  to  the  drawing- 
room,  her  charming  little  face  was  flushed,  and  had  never  been  so  pretty.  But, 
when  we  went  into  the  room,  and  it  turned  pale,  she  was  ten  thousand  times 
prettier  yet. 

Dora  was  afraid  of  Agnes.  She  had  told  me  that  she  knew  Agnes  was  '  too  clever.' 
But  when  she  saw  her  looking  at  once  so  cheerful  and  so  earnest,  and  so  thoughtful, 
and  so  good,  she  gave  a  faint  little  cry  of  pleased  surprise,  and  just  put  her  affectionate 
arms  round  Agnes's  neck,  and  laid  her  innocent  cheek  against  her  face. 

I  never  was  so  happy.  I  never  was  so  pleased  as  when  I  saw  those  two  sit  down 
together,  side  by  side.  As  when  I  saw  my  little  darling  looking  up  so  naturally  to  those 
cordial  eyes.     As  when  I  saw  the  tender,  beautiful  regard  which  Agnes  cast  upon  her. 

Miss  Lavinia  and  Miss  Clarissa  partook,  in  their  way,  of  my  joy.  It  was  the 
pleasantest  tea-table  in  the  world.  Miss  Clarissa  presided.  I  cut  and  handed  the 
sweet  seed-cake — the  little  sisters  had  a  bird-like  fondness  for  picking  up  seeds  and 
pecking  at  sugar  ;  Miss  Lavinia  looked  on  with  benignant  patronage,  as  if  our  happy 
love  were  all  her  work  ;  and  we  were  perfectly  contended  with  ourselves  and  one 
another. 

The  gentle  cheerfulness  of  Agnes  went  to  all  their  hearts.  Her  quiet  interest  in 
everything  that  interested  Dora  ;  her  manner  of  making  acquaintance  with  Jip  (who 
responded  instantly) ;  her  pleasant  way,  when  Dora  was  ashamed  to  come  over  to  her 
usual  seat  by  me  ;  her  modest  grace  and  ease,  eliciting  a  crowd  of  blushing  little 
marks  of  confidence  from  Dora  ;   seemed  to  make  our  circle  quite  complete. 

'  I  am  so  glad,'  said  Dora,  after  tea,  '  that  you  like  me.  I  didn't  think  you  would  ; 
and  I  want,  more  than  ever,  to  be  liked,  now  Julia  Mills  is  gone.' 

I  have  omitted  to  mention  it,  by  the  bye.  Miss  Mills  had  sailed,  and  Dora  and  I 
had  gone  aboard  a  great  East  Indiaman  at  Gravesend  to  see  her  ;  and  we  had  had 
preserved  ginger,  and  guava,  and  other  delicacies  of  that  sort  for  lunch  ;  and  we 
had  left  Miss  Mills  weeping  on  a  camp-stool  on  the  quarter-deck,  with  a  large  new 
diary  under  her  arm,  in  which  the  original  reflections  awakened  by  the  contemplation 
of  Ocean  were  to  be  recorded  under  lock  and  key. 


MISCHIEF  897 

Afjncs  said,  she  was  afraid,  I  must  li;i\c  f^ivcn  licr  an  iJiij)romising  character  ; 
but  Dora  corrected  that  directly. 

'  Oh  no  !  '  siie  said,  shakiiii,'  Ikt  ciiils  at  me  ;  '  it  was  all  praise.  He  thinks  so 
much  of  your  opinion,  I  hat  I  was  (jnitc  afraid  of  it.' 

'  ^'y  good  oj)iiiioii  (•.•itinot  stren{,'tlien  ills  attaeiirneiit  to  some  people  whom  he 
knows,'  said  Agnes,  witli  a  smile  ;    '  it  is  not  worth  tlieir  having.' 

'  But  please  let  me  have  it,'  said  Dora,  in  her  coaxing  way,  '  if  \  on  can  !  ' 

VVc  made  merry  ahout  Dora's  waiitinj,'  to  he  liked,  and  Dora  said  I  was  a  goose, 
and  she  didn't  like  me  at  any  rate,  and  the  short  evening  Hew  away  on  f,'ossarner-wings. 
The  time  was  at  hand  when  the  coach  was  to  call  for  us.  I  was  standing  alone  before 
the  fire,  when  Dora  came  stealing  softly  in,  to  give  me  that  usual  precious  little  kiss 
before  I  went. 

'  Don't  you  think,  if  I  had  had  her  for  a  friend  a  long  time  ago,  Doady,'  said  Dora, 
her  bright  eyes  shining  very  brightly,  and  her  little  right  hand  idly  busying  itself  with 
one  of  the  buttons  of  my  coat,  '  I  might  have  been  more  clever  perhaps  ?  ' 

'  My  love  !  '    said  I,  '  what  nonsense  !  ' 

'  Do  you  think  it  is  nonsense  ?  '  returned  Dora,  without  looking  at  me.  '  Are 
you  sure  it  is  ?  ' 

'  Of  course  I  am.' 

'  I  have  forgotten,'  said  Dora,  still  turning  the  l)utton  round  and  round,  '  what 
relation  Agnes  is  to  you,  you  dear  bad  boy.' 

'  No  blood-relation,'  I  replied  ;  '  but  we  were  brought  up  together,  like  brother 
and  sister.' 

'  I  wonder  why  you  ever  fell  in  love  with  me  ?  '  said  Dora,  beginning  on  another 
button  of  my  coat. 

'  Perhaps  because  I  couldn't  see  you,  and  not  love  you,  Dora  !  ' 

'  Suppose  you  had  never  seen  me  at  all,'  said  Dora,  going  to  another  button. 

'  Suppose  we  had  never  been  born  !  '    said  I,  gaily. 

I  wondered  what  she  was  thinking  aljout,  as  I  glanced  in  admiring  silence  at  the 
Httle  soft  hand  travelling  up  the  row  of  buttons  on  my  coat,  and  at  the  clustering 
hair  that  lay  against  my  breast,  and  at  the  lashes  of  her  downcast  eyes,  slightly  rising 
as  they  followed  her  idle  fingers.  At  length  her  eyes  were  lifted  up  to  mine,  and  she 
stood  on  tiptoe  to  give  me,  more  thoughtfully  than  usual,  that  precious  little  kiss — 
once,  twice,  three  times — and  went  out  of  the  room. 

They  all  came  back  together  within  five  minutes  afterwards,  and  Dora's  unusual 
thoughtfulness  was  quite  gone  then.  She  was  laughingly  resolved  to  put  Jip  through 
the  whole  of  his  performances,  before  the  coach  came.  They  took  some  time  (not  so 
much  on  account  of  their  variety,  as  Jip's  reluctance),  and  were  still  unfinished  when 
it  was  heard  at  the  door.  There  was  a  hurried  but  affectionate  parting  between  Agnes 
and  herself  ;  and  Dora  was  to  write  to  Agnes  (who  was  not  to  mind  her  letters  being 
foolish,  she  said),  and  Agnes  was  to  write  to  Dora  ;  and  they  had  a  second  parting 
at  the  coach-door,  and  a  third  when  Dora,  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  Miss 
Lavinia,  would  come  running  out  once  more  to  remind  Agnes  at  the  coach  window 
about  writing,  and  to  shake  her  curls  at  me  on  the  box. 

The  stage-coach  was  to  put  us  down  near  C'ovent  Garden,  where  we  were  to  take 
another  stage-coach  for  Highgate.  I  was  impatient  for  the  short  walk  in  the  interval, 
that  Agnes  might  praise  Dora  to  me.  Ah  !  what  praise  it  was  !  How  lovingly  and 
fervently  did  it  commend  the  pretty  creature  I  had  won,  with  all  her  artless  graces 


398  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

best  displayed,  to  my  most  gentle  care  !  How  thoughtfully  remind  me,  yet  with  no 
pretence  of  doing  so,  of  the  trust  in  which  I  held  the  orphan  child  ! 

Never,  never,  had  I  loved  Dora  so  deeply  and  truly,  as  I  loved  her  that  night. 
WTien  we  had  again  alighted,  and  were  walking  in  the  starlight  along  the  quiet  road 
that  led  to  the  Doctor's  house,  I  told  Agnes  it  was  her  doing, 

'  When  you  were  sitting  by  her,'  said  I,  '  you  seemed  to  be  no  less  her  guardian 
angel  than  mine  ;   and  you  seem  so  now,  Agnes.' 

'  A  poor  angel,'  she  returned,  '  but  faithful.' 

The  clear  tone  of  her  voice,  going  straight  to  my  heart,  made  it  natural  to  me 
to  say — 

'  The  cheerfulness  that  belongs  to  you,  Agnes  (and  to  no  one  else  that  ever  I  have 
seen),  is  so  restored,  I  have  observed  to-day,  that  I  have  begun  to  hope  you  are  happier 
at  home  ?  ' 

'  I  am  happier  in  myself,'  she  said  ;   '  I  am  quite  cheerful  and  light-hearted.' 

I  glanced  at  the  serene  face  looking  upward,  and  thought  it  was  the  stars  that 
made  it  seem  so  noble. 

'  There  has  been  no  change  at  home,'  said  Agnes,  after  a  few  moments. 

'  No  fresh  reference,'  said  I,  '  to — I  wouldn't  distress  you,  Agnes,  but  I  cannot 
help  asking — to  what  we  spoke  of,  when  we  parted  last  ?  ' 

'  No,  none,'  she  answered. 

'  I  have  though  so  much  about  it.' 

'  You  must  think  less  about  it.  Remember  that  I  confide  in  simple  love  and 
truth  at  last.  Have  no  apprehensions  for  me,  Trotwood,'  she  added,  after  a  moment ; 
'  the  step  you  dread  my  taking,  I  shall  never  take.' 

Although  I  think  I  had  never  really  feared  it,  in  any  season  of  cool  reflection, 
it  was  an  unspeakable  relief  to  me  to  have  this  assurance  from  her  own  truthful  lips. 
I  told  her  so,  earnestly. 

'  And  when  this  visit  is  over,'  said  I, — '  for  we  may  not  be  alone  another  time, — 
how  long  is  it  likely  to  be,  my  dear  Agnes,  before  you  come  to  London  again  ?  ' 

'  Probably  a  long  time,'  she  replied  ;  '  I  think  it  will  be  best — for  papa's  sake— 
to  remain  at  home.  We  are  not  likely  to  meet  often,  for  some  time  to  come  ;  but  I 
shall  be  a  good  correspondent  of  Dora's,  and  we  shall  frequently  hear  of  one  another 
that  way.' 

We  were  now  within  the  little  court-yard  of  the  Doctor's  cottage.  It  was  growing 
late.  There  was  a  light  in  the  window  of  Mrs.  Strong's  chamber,  and  Agnes,  pointing 
to  it,  bade  me  good-night. 

'  Do  not  be  troubled,'  she  said,  giving  me  her  hand,  '  by  our  misfortunes  and 
anxieties.  I  can  be  happier  in  nothing  than  in  your  happiness.  K  you  can  ever  give 
me  help,  rely  upon  it  I  will  ask  you  for  it.     God  bless  you  always  !  ' 

In  her  beaming  smile,  and  in  these  last  tones  of  her  cheerful  voice,  I  seemed  again 
to  see  and  hear  my  little  Dora  in  her  company.  I  stood  awhile,  looking  through  the 
porch  at  the  stars,  with  a  heart  full  of  love  and  gratitude,  and  then  walked  slowly 
forth.  I  had  engaged  a  bed  at  a  decent  ale-house  close  by,  and  was  going  out  at  the 
gate,  when,  happening  to  turn  my  head,  I  saw  a  light  in  the  Doctor's  study.  A  half- 
reproachful  fancy  came  into  my  mind,  that  he  had  been  working  at  the  Dictionary 
without  my  help.  With  the  view  of  seeing  if  this  were  so,  and,  in  any  case,  of  bidding 
him  good-night,  if  he  were  yet  sitting  among  his  books,  I  turned  back,  and  going  softly 
across  the  hall,  and  gently  opening  the  door,  looked  in. 


MrSCFIlKK  399 

The  first  person  whom  T  SJiw,  to  iny  stirprise,  hy  tlic  sober  lifjht  of  the  shaded 
lamp,  was  Uriah.  lie  was  stuiuliiig  elose  Ijeside  it,  with  one  of  his  skeleton  hands 
over  his  mouth,  and  the  other  resting  on  the  Doctor's  table.  The  Doctor  sat  in  his 
study  chair,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  Mr.  Wiekfieid,  sorely  troubled  and 
distressed,  was  leaning  forward,  irresolutely  touching  the  Doctor's  arm. 

For  an  instant,  I  supposed  that  the  Doctor  was  ill.  I  hastily  advanced  a  step 
under  that  impression,  when  I  met  Uriah's  eye,  and  saw  what  was  the  matter.  I 
would  have  withdrawn,  but  the  Doctor  made  a  gesture  to  detain  me,  and  I  remained. 

'  At  any  rate,'  observed  Uriah,  with  a  writhe  of  his  ungainly  person,  '  we  may 
keep  the  door  shut.     We  needn't  make  it  known  to  all  the  town.' 

Saying  which,  he  went  on  his  toes  to  the  door,  which  I  had  left  open,  and  care- 
fully closed  it.  lie  then  came  back,  and  took  uj)  his  former  position.  There  was  an 
obtrusive  show  of  compassionate  zeal  in  his  voice  and  manner,  more  intolerable — at 
least  to  me— than  any  demeanour  he  could  have  assumed. 

'  I  have  felt  it  incumbent  upon  mc,  Master  C'opperfield,'  said  Uriah,  '  to  point  out 
to  Doctor  Strong  what  you  and  me  have  already  talked  about.  You  didn't  exactly 
imderstand  me,  though  ?  ' 

I  gave  him  a  look,  but  no  other  answer,  and,  going  to  my  good  old  master,  said 
a  few  words  that  I  meant  to  be  words  of  comfort  and  encouragement.  He  put  his 
hand  upon  my  shoulder,  as  it  had  been  his  custom  to  do  when  I  was  quite  a  little 
fellow,  but  did  not  lift  his  grey  head. 

'  As  you  didn't  understand  me.  Master  Copperfield,'  resumed  Uriah  in  the  same 
officious  manner,  '  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  umbly  mentioning,  being  among  friends, 
that  I  have  called  Doctor  Strong's  attention  to  the  goings-on  of  ]\Irs.  Strong.  It 's 
much  against  the  grain  with  me,  I  assure  you,  Copperfield,  to  be  concerned  in  any- 
thing so  unpleasant  ;  but  really,  as  it  is,  we  're  all  mixing  ourselves  up  with  what 
oughtn't  to  be.     That  was  what  my  meaning  was,  sir,  when  you  didn't  understand  me.' 

I  wonder  now,  when  I  recall  his  leer,  that  I  did  not  collar  him,  and  try  to  shake 
the  breath  out  of  his  body. 

'  I  dare  say  I  didn't  make  myself  very  clear,'  he  went  on,  '  nor  you  neither. 
Naturally,  we  was  both  of  us  inclined  to  give  such  a  subject  a  wide  berth.  Hows'ever, 
at  last  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  plain  ;  and  I  have  mentioned  to  Doctor 
Strong  that — did  you  speak,  sir  ?  ' 

This  was  to  the  Doctor,  who  had  moaned.  The  sound  might  have  touched  any 
heart,  I  thought,  but  it  had  no  effect  upon  Uriah's. 

'  — mentioned  to  Doctor  Strong,'  he  proceeded,  '  that  any  one  may  see  that 
Mr.  Maldon,  and  the  lovely  and  agreeable  lady  as  is  Doctor  Strong's  wife,  are  too  sweet 
on  one  another.  Really  the  time  is  come  (we  being  at  present  all  mixing  ourselves  up 
with  what  oughtn't  to  be),  when  Doctor  Strong  must  be  told  that  this  was  full  as  plain 
to  everybody  as  the  sun,  before  Mr.  Maldon  went  to  India  ;  that  Jlr.  Maldon  made 
excuses  to  come  back,  for  nothing  else  ;  and  that  he  's  always  here,  for  nothing  else. 
When  you  come  in,  sir,  I  was  just  putting  it  to  my  fellow-partner,'  towards  whom  he 
turned,  '  to  say  to  Doctor  Strong  upon  his  word  and  honour,  whether  he  'd  ever  been 
of  this  opinion  long  ago,  or  not.  Come,  Mr.  Wiekfieid,  sir !  Would  you  be  so  good 
as  tell  us  ?     Yes  or  no,  sir  ?     Come,  partner  I  ' 

'  For  God's  sake,  my  dear  Doctor,'  said  Mr.  Wiekfieid,  again  laying  his  irresolute 
hand  upon  the  Doctor's  arm,  '  don't  attach  too  much  weight  to  any  suspicions  I  may 
have  entertained.' 


400  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  There  !  '  cried  Uriah,  shaking  his  head.  '  What  a  melancholy  confirmation  : 
ain't  it  ?  Him  !  Such  an  old  friend  !  Bless  your  soul,  when  I  was  nothing  but  a 
clerk  in  his  office,  Copperfield,  I  've  seen  him  twenty  times,  if  I  've  seen  him  once, 
quite  in  a  taking  about  it — quite  put  out — you  know  (and  very  proper  in  him  as  a 
father  ;  I  'm  sure  /  can't  blame  him),  to  think  that  Miss  Agnes  was  mixing  herself 
up  with  what  oughtn't  to  be.' 

'  My  dear  Strong,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield  in  a  tremulous  voice,  '  my  good  friend,  I 
needn't  tell  you  that  it  has  been  my  vice  to  look  for  some  one  master  motive  in  every- 
body, and  to  try  all  actions  by  one  narrow  test.  I  may  have  fallen  into  such  doubts 
as  I  have  had,  through  this  mistake.' 

'  You  have  had  doubts,  Wickfield,'  said  the  Doctor,  without  lifting  up  his  head. 
'  You  have  had  doubts.' 

'  Speak  up,  fellow-partner,'  urged  Uriah. 

'  I  had,  at  one  time,  certainly,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  '  I — God  forgive  me — I 
thought  you  had.' 

'  No,  no,  no  !  '   returned  the  Doctor,  in  a  tone  of  most  pathetic  grief. 

'  I  thought,  at  one  time,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  '  that  you  wished  to  send  Maldon 
abroad  to  effect  a  desirable  separation.' 

'  No,  no,  no  !  '  returned  the  Doctor.  '  To  give  Annie  pleasure,  by  making  some 
provision  for  the  companion  of  her  childhood.     Nothing  else.' 

'  So  I  found,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield.  '  I  couldn't  doubt  it,  when  you  told  me  so. 
But  I  thought — I  implore  you  to  remember  the  narrow  construction  which  has 
been  my  besetting  sin — that,  in  a  case  where  there  was  so  much  disparity  in  point 
of  years ' 

'  That 's  the  way  to  put  it,  you  see,  Master  Copperfield  !  '  observed  Uriah,  with 
fawning  and  offensive  pity. 

'  — a  lady  of  such  youth,  and  such  attractions,  however  real  her  respect  for  you, 
might  have  been  influenced  in  marrying,  by  worldly  considerations  only.  I  made  no 
allowance  for  innumerable  feelings  and  circumstances  that  may  have  all  tended  to 
good.     For  Heaven's  sake  remember  that  !  ' 

'  How  kind  he  puts  it  !  '   said  Uriah,  shaking  his  head. 

'  Always  observing  her  from  one  point  of  view,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield  ;  '  but  by  all 
that  is  dear  to  you,  my  old  friend,  I  entreat  you  to  consider  what  it  was  ;  I  am  forced 
to  confess  now,  having  no  escape ' 

'  No  !  There  's  no  way  out  of  it,  Mr.  Wickfield,  sir,'  observed  Uriah,  '  when 
it  's  got  to  this.' 

'  — that  I  did,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  glancing  helplessly  and  distractedly  at  his 
partner,  '  that  I  did  doubt  her,  and  think  her  wanting  in  her  duty  to  you  ;  and  that  I 
did  sometimes,  if  I  must  say  all,  feel  averse  to  Agnes  being  in  such  a  familiar  relation 
towards  her,  as  to  see  what  I  saw,  or  in  my  diseased  theory  fancied  that  I  saw.  I 
never  mentioned  this  to  any  one.  I  never  meant  it  to  be  known  to  any  one.  And 
though  it  is  terrible  to  you  to  hear,'  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  quite  subdued,  '  if  you  knew 
how  terrible  it  is  for  me  to  tell,  you  would  feel  compassion  for  me  !  ' 

The  Doctor,  in  the  perfect  goodness  of  his  nature,  put  out  his  hand.  Mr.  Wick- 
field held  it  for  a  little  while  in  his,  with  his  head  bowed  down. 

'  I  am  sure,'  said  Uriah,  writhing  himself  into  the  silence  like  a  conger-eel,  '  that 
this  is  a  subject  full  of  unpleasantness  to  everybody.  But  since  we  have  got  so  far, 
I  ought  to  take  the  liberty  of  mentioning  that  Copperfield  has  noticed  it  too.' 


MISCHIEF  401 

I  turned  upon  him,  .and  uskcd  liini  how  ho  dared  refer  to  rnc  ! 

'  Oh  !  it  's  very  kind  of  you,  Copjicrhcld,'  returned  Uriali,  unduiutiiif,'  ull  over, 
'  and  we  all  know  what  an  amial)le  character  yours  is  ;  but  you  know  that  the  moment 
I  spoke  to  you  the  other  nij^ht,  you  knew  what  I  meant.  You  know  you  knew  what  I 
meant,  Copperfield.  Don't  deny  it  !  You  deny  it  with  the  host  intentions  ;  hut  don't 
do  it,  Copperfield.' 

I  saw  the  mild  eye  of  the  good  old  Doctor  turned  upon  me  for  u  niDnicnt,  and  I 
felt  that  the  confession  of  my  old  niisp;ivings  and  rememhranoes  ^vas  too  plainly  written 
in  my  face  to  he  overlooked.  It  was  of  no  use  raging.  I  could  not  undo  that.  .Sa}' 
what  I  would,  I  could  not  unsay  it. 

We  were  silent  again,  and  remained  .so,  until  the  Doctor  rose  and  walked  twice 
or  thrice  across  the  room.  Presently  he  returned  to  where  his  chair  stood  ;  and, 
leaning  on  the  back  of  it,  and  occasionally  putting  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  with 
a  simple  honesty  that  did  him  more  honour,  to  my  thinking,  than  any  disguise  he 
could  have  effected,  said — 

'  I  have  been  much  to  blame.  I  believe  I  have  been  very  much  to  blame.  I  have 
exposed  one  whom  I  hold  in  my  heart,  to  trials  and  aspersions — I  call  them  aspersions, 
even  to  have  been  conceived  in  anybody's  inmost  mind — of  which  she  never,  but  for 
me,  could  have  been  the  object.' 

Uriah  Heep  gave  a  kind  of  snivel.     I  think  to  express  sympathy. 

'  Of  which  my  Annie,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  never.  l)ut  for  me,  <:ould  have  been  the 
object.  Gentlemen,  I  am  old  now,  as  you  know  ;  I  do  not  feel,  to-night,  that  I  have 
much  to  live  for.  But  my  life — -my  life — upon  the  truth  and  honour  of  the  dear  lady 
who  has  been  the  subject  of  this  conversation  !  ' 

I  do  not  think  that  the  best  embodiment  of  chivalry,  the  realisation  of  the 
handsomest  and  most  romantic  figure  ever  imagined  by  painter,  could  have  said  this 
with  a  more  impressive  and  affecting  dignity  than  the  plain  old  Doctor  did. 

'  But  I  am  not  prepared,'  he  went  on,  '  to  deny — perhaps  I  may  have  been, 
without  knowing  it,  in  some  degree  prepared  to  admit — that  I  may  have  unwittingly 
ensnared  that  lady  into  an  unhappy  marriage.  I  am  a  man  quite  unaccustomed  to 
observe  ;  and  I  cannot  but  believe  that  the  observation  of  several  people,  of  different 
ages  and  positions,  all  too  plainly  tending  in  one  direction  (and  that  so  natural),  is 
better  than  mine.' 

I  had  often  admired,  as  I  have  elsewhere  described,  his  benignant  manner  towards 
his  youthful  wife  ;  but  the  respectful  tenderness  he  manifested  in  every  reference  to 
her  on  this  occasion,  and  the  almost  reverential  manner  in  which  he  put  away  from  him 
the  lightest  doubt  of  her  integrity,  exalted  him,  in  my  eyes,  beyond  description. 

'  I  married  that  lady,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  when  she  was  extremely  young.  I  took 
her  to  myself  when  her  character  was  scarcely  formed.  So  far  as  it  was  developed, 
it  had  been  my  happiness  to  form  it.  I  knew  her  father  well.  I  knew  her  well.  I  had 
taught  her  what  I  could,  for  the  love  of  all  her  beautiful  and  virtuous  qualities.  If 
I  did  her  wrong  ;  as  I  fear  I  did,  in  taking  advantage  (but  I  never  meant  it)  of  her 
gratitude  and  her  affection  ;    I  ask  pardon  of  that  lady,  in  my  heart  !  ' 

He  walked  across  the  room,  and  came  back  to  the  same  place  ;  holding  the  chair 
with  a  grasp  that  trembled,  like  his  subdued  voice,  in  its  earnestness. 

'  I  regarded  myself  as  a  refuge,  for  her,  from  the  dangers  and  vicissitudes  of  life. 
I  persuaded  myself  that,  unequal  though  we  were  in  years,  she  would  live  tranquilly 
and  contentedly  with  me.     I  did  not  shut  out  of  my  consideration  the  time  when  I 


402  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

should  leave  her  free,  and  still  J'oung  and  still  beautiful,  but  with  her  judgment  more 
matured — no,  gentlemen — upon  my  truth  !  ' 

His  homely  figure  seemed  to  be  lightened  up  by  his  fidelity  and  generosity. 
Every  word  he  uttered  had  a  force  that  no  other  grace  could  have  imparted  to  it. 

'  My  life  with  this  lady  has  been  very  happy.  Until  to-night,  I  have  had  un- 
interrupted occasion  to  bless  the  day  on  which  I  did  her  great  injustice.' 

His  voice,  more  and  more  faltering  in  the  utterance  of  these  words,  stopped  for 
a  few  moments  ;    then  he  went  on — 

'  Once  awakened  from  my 'dream — I  have  been  a  poor  dreamer,  in  one  way  or 
other,  all  my  life — I  see  how  natural  it  is  that  she  should  have  some  regretful  feeling 
towards  her  old  companion  and  her  equal.  That  she  does  regard  him  with  some 
innocent  regret,  with  some  blameless  thoughts  of  what  might  have  been,  but  for  me, 
is,  I  fear,  too  true.  Much  that  I  have  seen,  but  not  noted,  has  come  back  upon  me 
with  new  meaning,  during  this  last  trying  hour.  But,  beyond  this,  gentlemen,  the 
dear  lady's  name  never  must  be  coupled  with  a  word,  a  breath,  of  doubt.' 

For  a  little  while,  his  eye  kindled  and  his  voice  was  firm  ;  for  a  little  while  he  was 
again  silent.     Presently,  he  proceeded  as  before — 

'  It  only  remains  for  me,  to  bear  the  knowledge  of  the  unhappiness  I  have 
occasioned,  as  submissively  as  I  can.  It  is  she  who  should  reproach  ;  not  I.  To  save 
her  from  misconstruction,  cruel  misconstruction,  that  even  my  friends  have  not  been 
able  to  avoid,  becomes  my  duty.  The  more  retired  we  live,  the  better  I  shall  dis- 
charge it.  And  when  the  time  comes — may  it  come  soon,  if  it  be  His  merciful 
pleasure  ! — when  my  death  shall  release  her  from  constraint,  I  shall  close  my  eyes 
upon  her  honoured  face,  with  imbounded  confidence  and  love ;  and  leave  her,  with 
no  sorrow  then,  to  happier  and  brighter  days.' 

I  could  not  see  him  for  the  tears  which  his  earnestness  and  goodness,  so  adorned 
by,  and  so  adorning,  the  perfect  simplicity  of  his  manner,  brought  into  my  eyes.  He 
had  moved  to  the  door,  when  he  added — 

'  Gentlemen,  I  have  shown  you  my  heart.  I  am  sure  you  will  respect  it.  What 
we  have  said  to-night  is  never  to  be  said  more.  Wickfield,  give  me  an  old  friend's 
arm  upstairs  ! ' 

Mr.  Wickfield  hastened  to  him.  Without  interchanging  a  word  they  went  slowly 
out  of  the  room  together,  Uriah  looking  after  them. 

'  Well,  Master  Copperfield  !  '  said  Uriah,  meekly  turning  to  me.  '  The  thing 
hasn't  took  quite  the  turn  that  might  have  been  expected,  for  the  old  Scholar — what 
an  excellent  man  ! — is  as  blind  as  a  brick-bat ;  but  this  family  's  out  of  the  cart, 
I  think  ! ' 

I  needed  but  the  sound  of  his  voice  to  be  so  madly  enraged  as  I  never  was  before, 
and  never  have  been  since. 

'  You  villain,'  said  I,  '  what  do  you  mean  by  entrapping  me  into  your  schemes  ? 
How  dare  you  appeal  to  me  just  now,  you  false  rascal,  as  if  we  had  been  in  discussion 
together  ? ' 

As  we  stood,  front  to  front,  I  saw  so  plainly,  in  the  stealthy  exultation  of  his 
face,  what  I  already  so  plainly  knew  ;  I  mean  that  he  forced  his  confidence  upon  me, 
expressly  to  make  me  miserable,  and  had  set  a  deliberate  trap  for  me  in  this  very 
matter  ;  that  I  couldn't  bear  it.  The  whole  of  his  lank  cheek  was  invitingly  before 
me,  and  I  struck  it  with  my  open  hand  with  that  force  that  my  fingers  tingled  as  if 
I  had  burnt  them. 


MISCITTEF  io.j 

lie  caught  the  hand  in  his,  and  wo  stood  in  tliat  connection,  looking  at  rach  other. 
We  stood  so,  a  long  time  ;  long  enough  for  me  to  see  the  white  marks  of  my  fingers 
die  out  of  the  deep  red  of  his  check,  and  leave  it  a  deeper  red. 

'  Copper  field,'  he  said  at  length,  in  a  hreathless  voice,  '  have  you  taken  leave 
of  your  senses  '!  ' 

'  I  have  taken  leave  of  you,'  said  I,  wresting  my  hand  away.  '  You  dog,  I  11 
know  no  more  of  you.' 

'  Won't  you  ?  '  said  he,  constrained  by  the  pain  of  his  cheek  to  put  his  hand 
there.     '  Perhaps  you  won't  be  able  to  help  it.     Isn't  this  ungrateful  of  you,  now  V  ' 

'  I  have  shown  you  often  enough,'  said  I,  '  that  I  despise  you.  I  have  shown 
yoii  now,  more  plainly,  that  I  do.  ^Vhy  should  I  dread  your  doing  your  worst  tf)  all 
about  you  ?     What  else  do  you  ever  do  ?  ' 

He  perfectly  understood  this  allusion  to  the  considerations  that  had  liitherto 
restrained  me  in  my  communications  with  him.  I  rather  think  that  neither  the  blow, 
nor  the  allusion,  would  have  escaped  me,  but  for  the  assurance  I  had  had  from  Agnes 
that  night.     It  is  no  matter. 

There  was  another  long  pause.  His  eyes,  as  he  looked  at  me,  seemed  to  take 
every  shade  of  colour  that  could  make  eyes  ugly. 

'  Copperfield,'  he  said,  removing  his  hand  from  his  cheek,  '  you  have  always  gone 
against  me.     I  know  you  always  used  to  be  against  me  at  Mr.  Wiekfield's.' 

'  You  may  think  what  you  like,'  said  I,  still  in  a  towering  rage.  '  If  it  is  not 
true,  so  much  the  worthier  you.' 

'  And  yet  I  always  liked  you,  Copperfield,'  he  rejoined. 

I  deigned  to  make  him  no  reply  ;  and,  taking  up  my  hat,  was  going  out  to  bed, 
when  he  came  between  me  and  the  door. 

'  Copperfield,'  he  said,  '  there  must  be  two  parties  to  a  quarrel.     I  won't  be  one.' 

'  You  may  go  to  the  devil  !  '    said  I. 

'  Don't  say  that  !  '  he  replied.  '  I  know  you  '11  be  sorry  afterwards.  How  can 
you  make  yourself  so  inferior  to  me,  as  to  show  such  a  bad  spirit  ?     But  I  forgive  you.' 

'  You  forgive  me  !  '    I  repeated  disdainfully. 

'  I  do,  and  you  can't  help  yourself,'  replied  Uriah.  '  To  think  of  your  going  and 
attacking  me,  that  have  always  been  a  friend  to  you  !  But  there  can't  be  a  quarrel 
without  two  parties,  and  I  won't  be  one.  I  will  be  a  friend  to  you,  in  spite  of  you. 
So  now  you  know  what  you  've  got  to  expect.' 

The  necessity  of  carrying  on  this  dialogue  (his  part  in  which  was  very  slow  ; 
mine  very  quick)  in  a  low  tone,  that  the  house  might  not  be  disturbed  at  an  un- 
seasonable hour,  did  not  improve  my  temper  ;  though  my  passion  was  cooling  down. 
Merely  telling  him  that  I  should  expect  from  him  what  I  always  had  expected,  and 
had  never  yet  been  disappointed  in,  I  opened  the  door  upon  him,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
great  walnut  put  there  to  be  cracked,  and  went  out  of  the  house.  But  he  slept  out 
of  the  house  too,  at  his  mother's  lodging  ;  and  before  I  had  gone  many  hundred  yards, 
came  up  with  me. 

'  You  know,  Copperfield,'  he  said,  in  my  ear  (I  did  not  turn  my  head),  '  you  're 
in  quite  a  wrong  position  '  ;  which  I  felt  to  be  true,  and  that  made  me  chafe  the 
more  ;  '  you  can't  make  this  a  brave  thing,  and  you  can't  help  being  forgiven.  I  don't 
intend  to  mention  it  to  mother,  nor  to  any  living  soul.  I  'm  determined  to  forgive 
you.  But  I  do  wonder  that  you  should  lift  your  hand  against  a  person  that  you 
knew  to  be  so  umble  !  ' 


404  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

I  felt  only  less  mean  than  he.  He  knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself.  If  he 
had  retorted  or  openly  exasperated  me,  it  would  have  been  a  relief  and  a  justification  ; 
but  he  had  put  me  on  a  slow  fire,  on  which  I  lay  tormented  half  the  night. 

In  the  morning,  when  I  came  out,  the  early  church  bell  Mas  ringing,  and  he  was 
walking  up  and  down  with  his  mother.  He  addressed  me  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
and  I  could  do  no  less  than  reply.  I  had  struck  him  hard  enough  to  give  him  the 
toothache,  I  suppose.  At  all  events  his  face  was  tied  up  in  a  black  silk  handkerchief, 
which,  with  his  hat  perched  on  the  top  of  it,  was  far  from  improving  his  appearance. 
I  heard  that  he  went  to  a  dentist's  in  London  on  the  Monday  morning,  and  had  a 
tooth  out.     I  hope  it  was  a  double  one. 

The  Doctor  gave  out  that  he  was  not  quite  well  ;  and  remained  alone,  for  a  con- 
siderable part  of  every  day,  during  the  remainder  of  the  visit.  Agnes  and  her  father 
had  been  gone  a  week,  before  we  resumed  our  usual  work.  On  the  day  preceding  its 
resumption,  the  Doctor  gave  me  with  his  own  hands  a  folded  note,  not  sealed.  It 
was  addressed  to  myself  ;  and  laid  an  injunction  on  me,  in  a  few  affectionate  words, 
never  to  refer  to  the  subject  of  that  evening.  I  had  confided  it  to  my  aunt,  but  to  no 
one  else.  It  was  not  a  subject  I  could  discuss  with  Agnes,  and  Agnes  certainly  had 
not  the  least  suspicion  of  what  had  passed. 

Neither,  I  felt  convinced,  had  Mrs.  Strong  then.  Several  weeks  elapsed  before 
I  saw  the  least  change  in  her.  It  came  on  slowly,  like  a  cloud  when  there  is  no  wind. 
At  first,  she  seemed  to  wonder  at  the  gentle  compassion  with  which  the  Doctor  spoke 
to  her,  and  at  his  wish  that  she  should  have  her  mother  with  her,  to  relieve  the  dull 
monotony  of  her  life.  Often,  when  we  were  at  work,  and  she  was  sitting  by,  I  would 
see  her  pausing  and  looking  at  him  with  that  memorable  face.  Afterwards,  I  some- 
times observed  her  rise,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  go  out  of  the  room.  Gradually 
an  unhappy  shadow  fell  upon  her  beauty,  and  deepened  every  day.  Mrs.  Markleham 
was  a  regular  inmate  of  the  cottage  then  ;   but  she  talked  and  talked,  and  saw  nothing. 

As  this  change  stole  on  Annie,  once  like  sunshine  in  the  Doctor's  house,  the 
Doctor  became  older  in  appearance,  and  more  grave  ;  but  the  sweetness  of  his  temper, 
the  placid  kindness  of  his  manner,  and  his  benevolent  solicitude  for  her,  if  they  were 
capable  of  any  increase,  were  increased.  I  saw  him  once,  early  on  the  morning  of  her 
birthday,  when  she  came  to  sit  in  the  window  while  we  were  at  work  (which  she  had 
always  done,  but  now  began  to  do  with  a  timid  and  uncertain  air  that  I  thought  very 
touching),  take  her  forehead  between  his  hands,  kiss  it,  and  go  hurriedly  away,  too 
much  moved  to  remain.  I  saw  her  stand  where  he  had  left  her,  like  a  statue  ;  and 
then  bend  down  her  head,  and  clasp  her  hands,  and  weep,  I  cannot  say  how  sorrowfully. 

Sometimes,  after  that,  I  fancied  that  she  tried  to  speak,  even  to  me,  in  intervals 
when  we  were  left  alone.  But  she  never  uttered  word.  The  Doctor  always  had  some 
new  project  for  her  participating  in  amusements  away  from  home,  with  her  mother ; 
and  Mrs.  Markleham,  who  was  very  fond  of  amusements,  and  very  easily  dissatisfied 
with  anything  else,  entered  into  them  with  great  good-will,  and  was  loud  in  her 
commendations.  But  Annie,  in  a  spiritless,  unhappy  way,  only  went  whither  she 
was  led,  and  seemed  to  have  no  care  for  anything. 

I  did  not  know  what  to  think.  Neither  did  my  aunt ;  who  must  have  walked, 
at  various  times,  a  hundred  miles  in  her  uncertainty.  ^Vhat  was  strangest  of  all  was, 
that  the  only  real  relief  which  seemed  to  make  its  way  into  the  secret  region  of  this 
domestic  unhappiness,  made  its  way  there  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Dick. 

What  his  thoughts  were  on  the  subject,  or  what  his  observation  was,  I  am  as 


MTSCTTTEF  405 

unable  to  explain,  as  I  dare  say  he  would  liave  been  to  assist  me  in  the  task,  lint, 
as  r  have  recorded  in  the  narrative  of  my  schooldays,  his  veneration  for  the  IJoetor 
was  unbounded  ;  and  there  is  a  suijtlety  of  f)crcej)tion  in  real  attachment,  even  when 
it  is  borne  towards  man  by  one  of  the  lower  animals,  which  leaves  the  highest  intellect 
behind.  To  this  mind  of  the  heart,  if  I  may  call  it  so,  in  Mr.  Dick,  some  bright  ray 
of  the  truth  shot  straight. 

He  had  proudly  resumed  his  privilege,  in  many  of  his  spare  hours,  of  walking 
up  and  down  the  garden  with  the  Doctor  ;  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  pace  up  and 
down  The  Doctor's  Walk  at  Canterbury.  Eut  matters  were  no  sooner  in  this  state, 
than  he  devoted  all  his  spare  time  (and  got  up  earlier  to  make  it  more)  to  these  per- 
ambulations. If  he  had  never  been  so  happy  as  when  the  Doctor  read  that  marvellous 
performance,  the  Dictionary,  to  him  ;  he  was  now  quite  miserable  unless  the  Doctor 
pulled  it  out  of  his  pocket,  and  began.  When  the  Doctor  and  I  were  engaged,  he 
now  fell  into  the  custom  of  walking  up  and  down  with  Mrs.  Strong,  and  helping  her  to 
trim  her  favourite  flowers,  or  weed  the  beds.  I  dare  say  he  rarely  sj)okc  a  dozen  words 
in  an  hour  :  but  his  quiet  interest,  and  his  wistful  face,  found  inmicdiate  response 
in  both  their  breasts  ;  each  knew  that  the  other  liked  him,  and  that  he  loved  both  ; 
and  he  became  what  no  one  else  could  be — a  link  between  them. 

When  I  think  of  him,  with  his  impenetrably  wise  face,  walking  up  and  down  with 
the  Doctor,  delighted  to  be  battered  by  the  hard  words  in  the  Dictionary  ;  when  I 
think  of  him  carrying  huge  watering-pots  after  Annie  ;  kneeling  down,  in  very  paws 
of  gloves,  at  patient  microscopic  work  among  the  little  leaves  ;  expressing  as  no 
philosopher  could  have  expressed,  in  everything  he  did,  a  delicate  desire  to  be  her 
friend  ;  showering  sympathy,  trustfulness,  and  affection,  out  of  every  hole  in  the 
watering-pot ;  when  I  think  of  him  never  wandering  in  that  better  mind  of  his  to 
which  unhappiness  addressed  itself,  never  bringing  the  unfortunate  King  Charles 
into  the  garden,  never  wavering  in  his  grateful  .service,  never  diverted  from  his 
knowledge  that  there  was  something  wrong,  or  from  his  wish  to  set  it  right — I  really 
felt  almost  ashamed  of  having  known  that  he  was  not  quite  in  his  wits,  taking 
account  of  the  utmost  I  have  done  with  mine. 

'  Nobody  but  myself.  Trot,  knows  what  that  man  is  !  '  my  aunt  would  proudly 
remark,  when  we  conversed  about  it.     '  Dick  will  distinguish  himself  yet  !  ' 

I  must  refer  to  one  other  topic  before  I  close  this  chapter.  While  the  visit  at  the 
Doctor's  was  still  in  progress,  I  observed  that  the  postman  brought  two  or  three 
letters  every  morning  for  Uriah  Heep,  who  remained  at  Highgate  until  the  rest  went 
back,  it  being  a  leisure  time  ;  and  that  these  were  always  directed  in  a  business-like 
manner  by  Mr.  Micawber,  who  now  assumed  a  round  legal  hand.  I  was  glad  to  infer, 
from  these  slight  premises,  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  doing  well  ;  and  consequently 
was  much  surprised  to  receive,  about  this  time,  the  following  letter  from  his 
amiable  wife  : — 

'  C'anterbi'RY,  Monday  Evening. 

'  You  will  doubtless  be  surprised,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  to  receive  this  com- 
munication. Still  more  so,  by  its  contents.  Still  more  so,  by  the  stipulation  of 
implicit  confidence  which  I  beg  to  impose.  But  my  feelings  as  a  wife  and  mother 
require  relief  ;  and  as  I  do  not  wish  to  consult  my  family  (already  obnoxious  to  the 
feelings  of  Mr.  Micawber),  I  know  no  one  of  whom  I  can  better  ask  advice  than  my 
friend  and  former  lodger. 


406  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  may  be  aware,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  that  between  myself  and  Mr. 
Micawber  (whom  I  will  never  desert),  there  has  always  been  preserved  a  spirit  of 
mutual  confidence.  Mr.  Micawber  may  have  occasionally  given  a  bill  without  con- 
sulting me,  or  he  may  have  misled  me  as  to  the  period  when  that  obligation  would 
become  due.  This  has  actually  happened.  But,  in  general,  Mr.  Micawber  has  had 
no  secrets  from  the  bosom  of  affection — I  allude  to  his  wife — and  has  invariably,  on 
our  retirement  to  rest,  recalled  the  events  of  the  day. 

'  You  will  picture  to  yourself,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  what  the  poignancy  of  my 
feelings  must  be,  when  I  inform  you  that  Mr.  Micawber  is  entirely  changed.  He  is 
reserved.  He  is  secret.  His  life  is  a  mystery  to  the  partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows — 
I  again  allude  to  his  wife — and  if  I  should  assure  you  that  beyond  knowing  that  it 
is  passed  from  morning  to  night  at  the  office,  I  now  know  less  of  it  than  I  do  of  the 
man  in  the  south,  connected  with  whose  mouth  the  thoughtless  children  repeat  an 
idle  tale  respecting  cold  plum  porridge,  I  should  adopt  a  popular  fallacy  to  express  an 
actual  fact. 

'  But  this  is  not  all.  Mr.  Micawber  is  morose.  He  is  severe.  He  is  estranged 
from  our  eldest  son  and  daughter,  he  has  no  pride  in  his  twins,  he  looks  with  an  eye 
of  coldness  even  on  the  unoffending  stranger  who  last  became  a  member  of  our  circle. 
The  pecuniary  means  of  meeting  our  expenses,  kept  down  to  the  utmost  farthing, 
are  obtained  from  him  with  great  difficulty,  and  even  under  fearful  threats  that  he 
will  Settle  himself  (the  exact  expression)  ;  and  he  inexorably  refuses  to  give  any 
explanation  whatever  of  this  distracting  policy. 

'  This  is  hard  to  bear.  This  is  heart-breaking.  If  you  will  advise  me,  knowing 
my  feeble  powers  such  as  they  are,  how  you  think  it  will  be  best  to  exert  them  in  a 
dilemma  so  unwonted,  you  will  add  another  friendly  obligation  to  the  many  you  have 
already  rendered  me.  With  loves  from  the  children,  and  a  smile  from  the  happily- 
unconscious  stranger,  I  remain,  dear  Mr.  Copperfield, 

'  Your  afflicted, 

'  Emma  Micawber.' 

I  did  not  feel  justified  in  giving  a  wife  of  Mrs.  Micawber's  experience  any  other 
recommendation,  than  that  she  should  try  to  reclaim  Mr.  Micawber  by  patience  and 
kindness  (as  I  knew  she  would  in  any  case)  ;  but  the  letter  set  me  thinking  about  him 
very  much. 

CHAPTER    XLIII 

ANOTHER   RETROSPECT 

ONCE  again,  let  me  pause  upon  a  memorable  period  of  my  life.  Let  me 
stand  aside,  to  see  the  phantoms  of  those  days  go  by  me,  accompanying 
the  shadow  of  myself,  in  dim  procession. 
Weeks,  months,  seasons,  pass  along.  They  seem  little  more  than  a 
suimner  day  and  a  winter  evening.  Now,  the  Common  where  I  walk  with  Dora  is  all 
in  bloom,  a  field  of  bright  gold  ;  and  now  the  unseen  heather  lies  in  mounds  and 
bunches  underneath  a  covering  of  snow.  In  a  breath,  the  river  that  flows  through 
our  Sunday  walks  is  sparkling  in  the  summer  sun,  is  ruilled  by  the  winter  wind,  or 


ANOTHER  RETROSPECT  407 

thickened  with  drifting  heaps  of  ice.     Faster  than  ever  river  ran  towards  the  sea,  it 
flashes,  darkens,  and  rolls  away. 

Not  a  thread  changes,  in  the  house  of  the  two  iiUlc  liird-like  ladies.  The  clock 
ticks  over  the  fireplace,  the  weather-glass  hangs  in  the  hall.  Neither  clock  nor 
weather-glass  is  ever  right ;    hut  we  helicve  in  both,  devoully. 

1  have  come  legally  to  man's  estate.  1  have  attained  the  dignitj'  of  twenty-one. 
But  this  is  a  sort  of  dignity  that  may  be  thrust  u[)()u  <jnc.  Let  me  think  what  I  have 
achieved. 

I  have  tamed  that  savage  stenograj)Iiic  mystery.  1  make  a  respectable  income 
by  it.  I  am  in  high  repute  for  my  accomplishment  in  all  pertaining  to  the  art,  and 
am  joined  with  eleven  others  in  reporting  the  debates  in  Parliament  for  a  morning 
newspaper.  Night  after  night,  I  record  predictions  that  never  come  to  pass,  pro- 
fessions that  are  never  fulfilled,  explanations  that  are  only  meant  to  mystify.  I 
wallow  in  words.  Britannia,  that  unfortunate  female,  is  always  before  me,  like  a 
trussed  fowl  :  skewered  through  and  through  with  office-pens,  and  bound  hand  and 
foot  with  red  tape.  I  am  sufficiently  behind  the  scenes  to  know  the  worth  of  political 
life.     I  am  quite  an  infidel  about  it,  and  shall  never  be  converted. 

My  dear  old  Traddles  has  tried  his  hand  at  the  same  pursuit,  but  it  is  not  in 
Traddles's  way.  He  is  perfectly  good-humoured  respecting  his  failure,  and  reminds 
me  that  he  always  did  consider  himself  slow.  He  has  occasional  employment  on  the 
same  newspaper,  in  getting  up  the  facts  of  dry  subjects,  to  be  written  about  and 
embellished  by  more  fertile  minds.  He  is  called  to  the  bar  ;  and  with  admirable 
industry  and  self-denial  has  scraped  another  hundi'cd  pounds  together,  to  fee  a 
conveyancer  whose  chambers  he  attends.  A  great  deal  of  very  hot  port  wine  was 
consumed  at  his  call  ;  and,  considering  the  figure,  I  should  think  the  Inner  Temple 
must  have  made  a  profit  by  it. 

I  have  come  out  in  another  way.  I  have  taken  with  fear  and  trembling  to  author- 
ship. I  wrote  a  little  something,  in  secret,  and  sent  it  to  a  magazine,  and  it  was 
published  in  the  magazine.  Since  then,  I  have  taken  heart  to  write  a  good  many 
trifling  pieces.  Now,  I  am  regularly  paid  for  them.  Altogether,  I  am  well  off  ; 
when  I  tell  my  income  on  the  fingers  of  my  left  hand,  I  pass  the  third  finger  and  take 
in  the  fourth  to  the  middle  joint. 

We  have  removed  from  Buckingham  Street,  to  a  pleasant  little  cottage  very  near 
the  one  I  looked  at,  when  my  enthusiasm  first  came  on.  My  aunt,  however  (who  has 
sold  the  house  at  Dover,  to  good  advantage),  is  not  going  to  remain  here,  but  intends 
removing  herself  to  a  still  more  tiny  cottage  close  at  hand.  VVTiat  does  this  portend  ? 
My  marriage  ?     Yes  ! 

Yes  !  I  am  going  to  be  married  to  Dora  !  Jliss  Lavinia  and  Miss  Clarissa  have 
given  their  consent ;  and  if  ever  canary-birds  were  in  a  flutter,  they  are.  Miss  La\'inia, 
self-charged  with  the  superintendence  of  my  darling's  wardrobe,  is  constantly  cutting 
out  brown-paper  cuirasses,  and  differing  in  opinion  from  a  highly  respectable  young 
man,  with  a  long  bundle,  and  a  yard-measure  under  his  arm.  A  dressmaker,  always 
stabbed  in  the  breast  with  a  needle  and  thread,  boards  and  lodges  in  the  house  ;  and 
seems  to  me,  eating,  drinking,  or  sleeping,  never  to  take  her  thimble  off.  They  make 
a  lay-figure  of  my  dear.  They  are  always  sending  for  her  to  come  and  try  something 
on.  We  can't  be  happy  together  for  five  minutes  in  the  evening,  but  some  intrusive 
female  knocks  at  the  door,  and  says,  '  Oh,  if  you  please.  Miss  Dora,  would  you  step 
upstairs  ?  ' 


408  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Miss  Clarissa  and  my  aunt  roam  all  over  London,  to  find  out  articles  of  furniture 
for  Dora  and  me  to  look  at.  It  would  be  better  for  them  to  buy  the  goods  at  once, 
without  this  ceremony  of  inspection  ;  for,  when  we  go  to  see  a  kitchen  fender  and 
meat-screen,  Dora  sees  a  Chinese  house  for  Jip,  with  little  bells  on  the  top,  and  prefers 
that.  And  it  takes  a  long  time  to  accustom  Jip  to  his  new  residence,  after  we  have 
bought  it  ;  whenever  he  goes  in  or  out,  he  makes  all  the  little  bells  ring,  and  is  horribly 
frightened. 

Peggotty  comes  up  to  make  herself  useful,  and  falls  to  work  immediately.  Her 
department  appears  to  be,  to  clean  everything  over  and  over  again.  She  rubs  every- 
thing that  can  be  rubbed,  until  it  shines,  like  her  own  honest  forehead,  with  perpetual 
friction.  And  now  it  is,  that  I  begin  to  see  her  solitary  brother  passing  through  the 
dark  streets  at  night,  and  looking,  as  he  goes,  among  the  wandering  faces.  I  never 
speak  to  him  at  such  an  hour.  I  know  too  well,  as  his  grave  figure  passes  onward, 
what  he  seeks,  and  what  he  dreads. 

Why  does  Traddles  look  so  important  when  he  calls  upon  me  this  afternoon  in  the 
Commons — where  I  still  occasionally  attend,  for  form's  sake,  when  I  have  time  ?  The 
realisation  of  my  boyish  day-dreams  is  at  hand.     I  am  going  to  take  out  the  licence. 

It  is  a  little  document  to  do  so  much  ;  and  Traddles  contemplates  it,  as  it  hes 
upon  my  desk,  half  in  admiration,  half  in  awe.  There  are  the  names  in  the  sweet  old 
visionary  connection,  David  Copperfield  and  Dora  Spenlow  ;  and  there,  in  the  corner, 
is  that  Parental  Institution,  the  Stamp  office,  which  is  so  benignantly  interested 
in  the  various  transactions  of  human  life,  looking  down  upon  our  Union  ;  and 
there  is  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  invoking  a  blessing  on  us  in  print,  and  doing  it 
as  cheap  as  could  possibly  be  expected. 

Nevertheless,  I  am  in  a  dream,  a  flustered,  happy,  hurried  dream.  I  can't  believe 
that  it  is  going  to  be  ;  and  yet  I  can't  believe  but  that  every  one  I  pass  in  the  street, 
must  have  some  kind  of  perception,  that  I  am  to  be  married  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
The  Surrogate  knows  me,  when  I  go  down  to  be  sworn  ;  and  disposes  of  me  easily, 
as  if  there  were  a  Masonic  understanding  between  us.  Traddles  is  not  at  all  wanted, 
but  is  in  attendance  as  my  general  backer. 

'  I  hope  the  next  time  you  come  here,  my  dear  fellow,'  I  say  to  Traddles,  '  it  will 
be  on  the  same  errand  for  yourself.     And  I  hope  it  will  be  soon.' 

'  Thank  you  for  your  good  wishes,  my  dear  Copperfield,'  he  replies.  '  I  hope  so 
too.  It 's  a  satisfaction  to  know  that  she  '11  wait  for  me  any  length  of  time,  and  that 
she  really  is  the  dearest  girl -' 

'  When  are  you  to  meet  her  at  the  coach  ?  '    I  ask. 

'  At  seven,'  says  Traddles,  looking  at  his  plain  old  silver  watch— the  very  watch 
he  once  took  a  wheel  out  of,  at  school,  to  make  a  water-mill.  '  That  is  about  Miss 
Wickfield's  time,  is  it  not  ?  ' 

'  A  little  earlier.     Her  time  is  half-past  eight.' 

'  I  assure  you,  my  dear  boy,'  says  Traddles,  '  I  am  almost  as  pleased  as  if 
I  were  going  to  be  married  myself,  to  think  that  this  event  is  coming  to  such  a 
happy  termination.  And  really  the  great  friendship]  and  consideration  of  personally 
associating  Sophy  with  the  joyful  occasion,  and  inviting  her  to  be  a  bridesmaid  in 
conjunction  with  Miss  Wickfield,  demands  my  warmest  thanks.  I  am  extremely 
sensible  of  it.' 

I  hear  him,  and  shake  hands  with  him  ;  and  we  walk,  and  talk,  and  dine,  and  so 
on  ;  but  I  don't  believe  it.     Nothing  is  real. 


ANOTHER  RETROSPECT  409 

Sophy  arrives  at  the  house  of  Dora's  aunts,  in  due  course.  She  has  the  most 
agreea})ie  of  faces, — not  ahsohitoly  beautiful,  but  extraordinarily  pleasant, — and  is  one 
of  the  most  genial,  uiuiffected,  frank,  engaging  (rreatures  I  have  ever  seen.  Traddles 
presents  her  to  us  with  great  pride  ;  and  rubs  his  hands  for  ten  minutes  by  the  clock, 
with  every  individual  hair  upon  his  head  standing  on  tiptoe,  when  I  congratulate  him 
in  a  corner  on  his  choice. 

I  have  brought  Agnes  from  the  Canterbury  coach,  and  her  cheerful  and  beautiful 
face  is  among  us  for  the  second  time.  Agnes  has  a  great  liking  for  Traddles,  and  it 
is  capital  to  see  them  meet,  and  to  observe  the  glory  of  Traddles  as  he  commends 
the  dearest  girl  in  the  world  to  her  acquaintance. 

Still  I  don't  believe  it.  VVc  have  a  delightful  evening,  and  are  supremely  happy  : 
but  I  don't  believe  it  yet.  I  can't  collect  myself.  I  can't  check  off  my  happiness  as  it 
takes  place.  I  feel  in  a  misty  and  unsettled  kind  of  state  ;  as  if  I  had  got  up  very 
early  in  the  morning  a  week  or  two  ago,  and  had  never  been  to  bed  since.  I  can't 
make  out  when  yesterday  was.  I  seem  to  have  been  carrying  the  licence  about,  in 
my  pocket,  many  months. 

Next  day,  too,  when  we  all  go  in  a  flock  to  see  the  house- — (jur  house — Dora's 
and  mine — I  am  (juite  unable  to  regard  myself  as  its  master.  I  seem  to  be  there,  by 
permission  of  somebody  else.  I  half  expect  the  real  master  to  come  home  presently, 
and  say  he  is  glad  to  see  me.  Such  a  beautiful  little  house  as  it  is,  with  everything 
so  bright  and  new  ;  with  the  flowers  on  the  carpets  looking  as  if  freshly  gathered, 
and  the  green  leaves  on  the  paper  as  if  they  had  just  come  out  ;  with  the  spotless 
muslin  curtains,  and  the  blushing  rose-coloured  furniture,  and  Dora's  garden  hat 
with  the  blue  ribbon— do  I  remember,  now,  how  I  loved  her  in  such  another  hat  when 
I  first  knew  her  ! — already  hanging  on  its  little  peg  ;  the  guitar-ease  quite  at  home 
on  its  heels  in  a  corner  ;  and  everybody  tumbling  over  .Tip's  pagoda,  which  is  much 
too  big  for  the  establishment. 

Another  happy  evening,  quite  as  unreal  as  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  I  steal  into  the 
usual  room  before  going  away.  Dora  is  not  there.  I  suppose  they  have  not  done 
trying  on  yet.  Miss  Lavinia  peeps  in,  and  tells  me  msyteriously  that  she  will  not 
be  long.  She  is  rather  long,  notwithstanding  :  but  by  and  by  I  hear  a  rusthng  at  the 
door,  and  some  one  taps. 

I  say,  '  Come  in  I  '    but  some  one  taps  again. 

I  go  to  the  door,  wondering  who  it  is  ;  there,  I  meet  a  pair  of  bright  eyes, 
and  a  blushing  face  ;  they  are  Dora's  eyes  and  face,  and  Miss  Lavinia  has 
dressed  her  in  to-morrow's  dress,  bonnet  and  all,  for  me  to  see.  I  take  my  little 
wife  to  my  heart  ;  and  Miss  Lavinia  gives  a  little  scream  because  I  tumble  the 
bonnet,  and  Dora  laughs  and  cries  at  once,  because  I  am  so  pleased  ;  and  I  believe 
it  less  than  ever. 

'  Do  you  think  it  pretty,  Doady  ?  '    says  Dora. 

Pretty  I     I  should  rather  think  I  did. 

'  And  are  you  sure  you  like  me  very  much  ?  '   says  Dora. 

The  topic  is  fraught  with  such  danger  to  the  bonnet,  that  Miss  Lavinia  gives 
another  little  scream,  and  begs  me  to  understand  that  Dora  is  only  to  be  looked  at, 
and  on  no  account  to  be  touched.  So  Dora  stands  in  a  delightful  state  of  confusion 
for  a  minute  or  two,  to  be  admired  ;  and  then  takes  off  her  bonnet — looking  so  natural 
without  it  ! — and  runs  away  with  it  in  her  hand  ;  and  comes  dancing  down  again  in 
her  own  familiar  dress,  and  asks  Jip  if  I  have  got  a  beautiful  little  wife,  and  whether 


410  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

he  '11  forgive  her  for  being  married,  and  kneels  down  to  make  him  stand  upon  the 
Cookery  Book,  for  the  last  time  in  her  single  life. 

I  go  home,  more  incredulous  than  ever,  to  a  lodging  that  I  have  hard  by  ; 
and  get  up  very  early  in  the  morning,  to  ride  to  the  Highgate  Road  and  fetch 
my  aunt. 

I  have  never  seen  my  aunt  in  such  state.  She  is  dressed  in  lavender-coloured 
silk,  and  has  a  white  bonnet  on,  and  is  amazing.  Janet  has  dressed  her,  and  is  there 
to  look  at  me.  Peggotty  is  ready  to  go  to  church,  intending  to  behold  the  ceremony 
from  the  gallery.  Mr.  Dick,  who  is  to  give  my  darling  to  me  at  the  altar,  has  had  his 
hair  curled.  Traddles,  whom  I  have  taken  up  by  appointment  at  the  turnpike, 
presents  a  dazzling  combination  of  cream  colour  and  light  blue  ;  and  both  he  and 
Mr.  Dick  have  a  general  effect  about  them  of  being  all  gloves. 

No  doubt  I  see  this,  because  I  know  it  is  so  ;  but  I  am  astray,  and  seem  to  see 
nothing.  Nor  do  I  beheve  anything  whatever.  Still,  as  we  drive  along  in  an  open 
carriage,  this  fairy  marriage  is  real  enough  to  fill  me  with  a  sort  of  wondering  pity  for 
the  unfortunate  people  who  have  no  part  in  it,  but  are  sweeping  out  the  shops,  and 
going  to  their  daily  occupations. 

My  aimt  sits  with  my  hand  in  hers  all  the  way.  When  we  stop  a  little  way  short 
of  the  church,  to  put  down  Peggotty,  whom  we  have  brought  on  the  box,  she  gives 
it  a  squeeze,  and  me  a  kiss. 

'  God  bless  you,  Trot  !  My  own  boy  never  could  be  dearer.  I  think  of  poor 
dear  Baby  this  morning.' 

'  So  do  I.     And  of  all  I  owe  to  you,  dear  aunt.' 

'  Tut,  child  I  '  says  my  aunt ;  and  gives  her  hand  in  overflowing  cordiality  to 
Traddles,  who  then  gives  his  to  Mr.  Dick,  who  then  gives  his  to  me,  who  then  give 
mine  to  Traddles,  and  then  we  come  to  the  church  door. 

The  church  is  calm  enough,  I  am  sure  ;  but  it  might  be  a  steam-power  loom  in 
full  action,  for  any  sedative  effect  it  has  on  me.     I  am  too  far  gone  for  that. 

The  rest  is  all  a  more  or  less  incoherent  dream. 

A  dream  of  their  coming  in  with  Dora  ;  of  the  pew-opener  arranging  us,  like  a 
drill-sergeant,  before  the  altar  rails  ;  of  my  wondering,  even  then,  why  pew-openers 
must  always  be  the  most  disagreeable  females  procurable,  and  whether  there  is  any 
religious  dread  of  a  disastrous  infection  of  good-humour  which  renders  it  indispens- 
able to  set  those  vessels  of  vinegar  upon  the  road  to  heaven. 

Of  the  clergyman  and  clerk  appearing  ;  of  a  few  boatmen  and  some  other  people 
strolling  in  ;  of  an  ancient  mariner  behind  me,  strongly  flavouring  the  church  with 
rum  ;  of  the  service  beginning  in  a  deep  voice,  and  our  all  being  very  attentive. 

Of  Miss  Lavinia  who  acts  as  a  semi -auxiliary  bridesmaid,  being  the  fu-st  to  cry, 
and  of  her  doing  homage  (as  I  take  it)  to  the  memory  of  Pidger,  in  sobs  ;  of  Miss 
Clarissa  applying  a  smelling-bottle  ;  of  Agnes  taking  care  of  Dora  ;  of  my  aunt 
endeavouring  to  represent  herself  as  a  model  of  sternness,  with  tears  rolling  down 
her  face  ;  of  little  Dora  trembling  very  much,  and  making  her  responses  in  faint 
whispers. 

Of  our  kneeling  down  together,  side  by  side  ;  of  Dora's  trembling  less  and  less, 
but  always  clasping  Agnes  by  the  hand  ;  of  the  service  being  got  through,  quietly 
and  gravely  ;  of  our  all  looking  at  each  other  in  an  April  state  of  smiles  and  tears, 
when  it  is  over  ;  of  my  young  wife  being  hysterical  in  the  vestry,  and  crying  for  her 
poor  papa,  her  dear  papa. 


ANOTHER  RETROSPECT  411 

Of  her  soon  cheering  up  again,  and  our  signing  the  register  all  round.  Of  my 
going  into  the  gallery  for  Pcggotty  to  hring  hrr  to  sign  it  ;  of  Peggotty's  hugging  me 
in  a  corner,  and  telling  me  she  saw  my  own  dear  mother  married  ;  of  its  being  over, 
and  our  going  away. 

Of  my  walking  so  proudly  and  lovingly  down  the  aisle  with  my  sweet  wife  upon 
my  arm,  through  a  mist  of  half-seen  people,  puljjits,  monuments,  pews,  fonts,  organs, 
and  church-windows,  in  which  there  flutter  faint  airs  of  association  with  my  childish 
church  at  home,  so  long  ago. 

Of  their  whispering,  as  we  pass,  what  a  youthful  couple  we  are,  and  what  a  pretty 
little  wife  she  is.  Of  our  all  being  so  merry  and  talkative  in  the  carriage  going  l^ack. 
Of  Sophy  telling  us  that  when  she  saw  Traddles  (whom  I  had  entrusted  with  the 
licence)  asked  for  it,  she  almost  fainted,  having  been  convinced  that  he  would  contrive 
to  lose  it,  or  to  have  his  pocket  picked.  Of  Agnes  laughing  gaily  ;  and  of  Dora  being 
so  fond  of  Agnes  that  she  will  not  be  separated  from  her,  but  still  keeps  her  hand. 

Of  there  being  a  breakfast,  with  abundance  of  things,  pretty  and  substantial, 
to  eat  and  drink,  whereof  I  partake,  as  I  should  do  in  any  other  dream,  without  the 
least  perception  of  their  flavour ;  eating  and  drinking,  as  I  may  say,  nothing  but 
love  and  marriage,  and  no  more  believing  in  the  viands  than  in  anything  else. 

Of  my  making  speech  in  the  same  dreamy  fashion,  without  having  an  idea  of 
what  I  want  to  say,  beyond  such  as  may  be  comprehended  in  the  full  conviction  that 
I  haven't  said  it.  Of  our  being  very  sociably  and  simply  happy  (always  in  a  dream 
though) ;   and  of  Jip's  having  wedding  cake,  and  its  not  agreeing  with  him  afterwards. 

Of  the  pair  of  hired  post-horses  being  ready,  and  of  Dora's  going  away  to  change 
her  dress.  Of  my  aunt  and  Miss  Clarissa  remaining  with  us  ;  and  our  walking  in  the 
garden  ;  and  my  aunt,  who  has  made  cjuite  a  speech  at  breakfast  touching  Dora's 
aunts,  being  mightily  amused  with  herself,  but  a  little  proud  of  it  too. 

Of  Dora's  being  ready,  and  of  Miss  Lavinia's  hovering  about  her,  loth  to  lose  the 
pretty  toy  that  has  given  her  so  much  pleasant  occupation.  Of  Dora's  making  a  long 
series  of  surprised  discoveries  that  she  has  forgotten  all  sorts  of  little  things  ;  and  of 
everybody's  running  everywhere  to  fetch  them. 

Of  their  all  closing  about  Dora,  when  at  last  she  begins  to  say  good-bye,  looking, 
with  their  bright  colours  and  ribbons,  like  a  bed  of  flowers.  Of  my  darling  being 
almost  smothered  among  the  flowers,  and  coming  out,  laughing  and  crying  both 
together,  to  my  jealous  arms. 

Of  my  wanting  to  carry  Jip  (who  is  to  go  along  with  us),  and  Dora's  saying,  No, 
that  she  must  carry  him,  or  else  he  '11  think  she  don't  like  him  any  more,  now  she  is 
married,  and  will  break  his  heart.  Of  our  going,  arm-in-arm,  and  Dora  stopping 
and  looking  back,  and  saying,  '  If  I  have  ever  been  cross  or  ungrateful  to  anybody, 
don't  remember  it !  '    and  bursting  into  tears. 

Of  her  waving  her  little  hand,  and  our  going  away  once  more.  Of  her  once  more 
stopping  and  looking  back,  and  hurrying  to  Agnes,  and  giving  Agnes,  above  all  the 
others,  her  last  kisses  and  farewells. 

We  drive  away  together,  and  I  awake  from  the  dream.  I  believe  it  at  last.  It 
is  ray  dear,  dear,  little  wife  beside  me,  whom  I  love  so  well  ! 

'  Are  you  happy  now,  you  foolish  boy  ?  '  says  Dora,  '  and  sure  you  don't  repent  ?  ' 

I  have  stood  aside  to  see  the  phantoms  of  those  days  go  by  me.  They  are  gone, 
and  I  resume  the  journey  of  my  story. 


CHAPTER    XLIV 

OUR    HOUSEKEEPING 

IT  was  a  strange  condition  of  things,  the  honeymoon  being  over,  and  the  brides- 
maids gone  home,  when  I  found  myself  sitting  down  in  my  own  small  house 
with  Dora  ;  quite  thrown  out  of  employment,  as  I  may  say,  in  respect  of  the 
delicious  old  occupation  of  making  love. 
It  seemed  such  an  extraordinary  thing  to  have  Dora  always  there.  It  was  so 
unaccountable  not  to  be  obliged  to  go  out  to  see  her,  not  to  have  any  occasion  to  be 
tormenting  myself  about  her,  not  to  have  to  write  to  her,  not  to  be  scheming  and 
devising  opportunities  of  being  alone  with  her.  Sometimes  of  an  evening,  when  I 
looked  up  from  my  writing,  and  saw  her  seated  opposite,  I  would  lean  back  in  my  chair, 
and  think  how  queer  it  was  that  there  we  were,  alone  together  as  a  matter  of  course 
—nobody's  business  any  more — all  the  romance  of  our  engagement  put  away  upon  a 
shelf,  to  rust — no  one  to  please  but  one  another— one  another  to  please,  for  life. 

When  there  was  a  debate,  and  I  was  kept  out  very  late,  it  seemed  so  strange  to 
me,  as  I  was  walking  home,  to  think  that  Dora  was  at  home  !  It  was  such  a  wonderful 
thing,  at  first,  to  have  her  coming  softly  down  to  talk  to  me  as  I  ate  my  supper.  It 
was  such  a  stupendous  thing  to  know  for  certain  that  she  put  her  hair  in  papers.  It 
was  altogether  such  an  astonishing  event  to  see  her  do  it  ! 

I  doubt  whether  two  young  birds  could  have  known  less  about  keeping  house, 
than  I  and  my  pretty  Dora  did.  We  had  a  servant,  of  course.  She  kept  house  for 
us.  I  have  still  a  latent  belief  that  she  must  have  been  Mrs.  Crupp's  daughter  in 
disguise,  we  had  such  an  awful  time  of  it  with  Mary  Anne. 

Her  name  was  Paragon.  Her  nature  was  represented  to  us,  when  we  engaged 
her,  as  being  feebly  expressed  in  her  name.  She  had  a  written  character,  as  large  as 
a  proclamation  ;  and,  according  to  this  document,  could  do  everything  of  a  domestic 
nature  that  ever  I  heard  of,  and  a  great  many  things  that  I  never  did  hear  of.  She 
was  a  woman  in  the  prime  of  life  ;  of  a  severe  countenance  ;  and  subject  (particularly 
in  the  arms)  to  a  sort  of  perpetual  measles  or  fiery  rash.  She  had  a  cousin  in  the  Life 
Guards,  with  such  long  legs  that  he  looked  like  the  afternoon  shadow  of  somebody 
else.  His  shell-jacket  was  as  much  too  little  for  him  as  he  was  too  big  for  the  premises. 
He  made  the  cottage  smaller  than  it  need  have  been,  by  being  so  very  much  out  of 
proportion  to  it.  Besides  which,  the  walls  were  not  thick,  and  whenever  he  passed 
the  evening  at  our  house,  we  always  knew  of  it  by  hearing  one  continual  growl  in  the 
kitchen. 

Our  treasure  was  warranted  sober  and  honest.  I  am  therefore  willing  to  believe 
that  she  was  in  a  fit  when  we  found  her  under  the  boiler  ;  and  that  the  deficient  tea- 
spoons were  attributable  to  the  dustman. 

But  she  preyed  upon  our  minds  dreadfully.     We  felt  our  inexperience,  and  were  un- 
able to  help  ourselves.     We  should  have  been  at  her  mercy,  if  she  had  had  any  ;  but  she 
was  a  remorseless  woman,  and  had  none.     She  was  the  cause  of  our  first  little  quarrel. 
'  My  dearest  life,'  I  said  one  day  to  Dora,  '  do  you  think  Mary  Anne  has  any  idea 
of  time  ?  • 


OUR  HOUSEKEEPING  418 

'  Why,  Doady  ?  '    inquired  Dora,  looking  up,  itinoccntiy,  from  her  drawing. 

'  My  love,  heouiisc  it  's  five,  and  we  were  t.o  have  dined  al;  four.' 

Dora  glanced  wistfully  at  the  clock,  and  hinted  that  she  thought  it  was  too  fast, 

'  On  the  contrary,  my  love,'  said  I,  referring  to  my  watch,  '  it  's  a  few  minutes 
too  slow.' 

My  little  wife  came  and  sat  upon  my  knee,  to  coax  me  to  be  quiet,  and  drew  a 
line  with  her  pencil  down  the  middle  of  my  nose  ;  but  I  couldn't  dine  off  that,  though 
it  was  very  agreeable. 

'  Don't  you  think,  my  dear,'  said  I,  '  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  remonstrate 
with  Mary  Anne  ?  ' 

'  Oh  no,  please  !     I  couldn't,  Doady  !  '    said  Dora. 

'  Why  not,  my  love  ?  '    I  gently  asked. 

'  Oh,  because  I  am  such  a  little  goose,'  said  Dora,  '  and  she  knows  I  am  !  ' 

I  thought  this  sentiment  so  incompatible  with  the  establishment  of  any  system 
of  check  on  Mary  Anne,  that  I  frowned  a  little. 

'  Oh,  what  ugly  wrinkles  in  my  bad  boy's  forehead  !  '  .said  Dora,  and  still  being 
on  my  knee,  she  traced  them  with  her  pencil  ;  putting  it  to  her  rosy  lips  to  m;ikc  it 
mark  blacker,  and  working  at  my  forehead  with  a  (juaint  little  mockery  of  being 
industrious,  that  quite  delighted  me  in  spite  of  myself. 

'  There  's  a  good  child,'  said  Dora,  '  it  makes  its  face  so  much  prettier  to  laugh.' 

'  But,  my  love,'  said  I. 

'  No,  no  !  please  !  '  cried  Dora,  with  a  kiss,  '  don't  be  a  naughty  Blue  Beard  ! 
Don't  be  serious  !  ' 

'  My  precious  wife,'  said  I,  '  we  must  be  serious  sometimes.  Come  !  Sit  down  on 
this  chair,  close  beside  me  !  Give  me  the  pencil  !  There  !  Now  let  us  talk  sensibly. 
You  know,  dear  '  ;  what  a  little  hand  it  was  to  hold,  and  what  a  tiny  wedding- 
ring  it  was  to  see  !  '  You  know,  my  love,  it  is  not  exactly  comfortable  to  have  to 
go  out  without  one's  dinner.     Now,  is  it  ?  ' 

'  N — n — no  !  '    replied  Dora,  faintly. 

'  My  love,  how  you  tremble  !  ' 

'  Because  I  know  you  're  going  to  scold  me,'  exclaimed  Dora,  in  a  piteous  voice. 

'  My  sweet,  I  am  only  going  to  reason.' 

'  Oh,  b\it  reasoning  is  worse  than  scolding  !  '  exclaimed  Dora,  in  despair.  '  I 
didn't  marry  to  be  reasoned  with.  If  you  meant  to  reason  with  such  a  poor  little 
thing  as  I  am,  you  ought  to  have  told  me  so,  you  cruel  boy  !  ' 

I  tried  to  pacify  Dora,  but  she  turned  away  her  face,  and  shook  her  curls  from 
side  to  side,  and  said  '  You  cruel,  cruel  boy  !  '  so  many  times,  that  I  really  did  not 
exactly  know  what  to  do  :  so  I  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  room  in  my 
uncertainty,  and  came  back  again. 

'  Dora,  my  darling  !  ' 

'  No,  I  am  not  your  darling.  Because  you  muM  be  sorry  that  you  married  me, 
or  else  you  wouldn't  reason  with  me  !  '   returned  Dora. 

I  felt  so  injured  by  the  inconsequential  nature  of  this  charge,  that  it  gave  me 
courage  to  be  grave. 

'  Now,  my  own  Dora,'  said  I,  '  you  are  very  childish,  and  are  talking  nonsense. 
You  must  remember,  I  am  sure,  that  I  was  obliged  to  go  out  yesterday  when  dinner 
was  half  over  ;  and  that,  the  day  before,  I  was  made  quite  unwell  by  being  obliged 
to  eat  underdone  veal  in  a  hurry  ;   to-day,  I  don't  dine  at  all — and  I  am  afraid  to  say 


414  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

how  long  we  waited  for  breakfast — and  then  the  water  didn't  boil.     I  don't  mean  to 
reproach  you,  my  dear,  but  this  is  not  comfortable.' 

'  Oh,  you  cruel,  cruel  boy,  to  say  I  am  a  disagreeable  wife  !  '   cried  Dora. 

'  Now,  my  dear  Dora,  you  must  know  that  I  never  said  that  !  ' 

'  You  said  I  wasn't  comfortable  !  '  said  Dora. 

'  I  said  the  housekeeping  was  not  comfortable.' 

'  It 's  exactly  the  same  thing  !  '  cried  Dora.  And  she  evidently  thought  so,  for 
she  wept  most  grievously. 

I  took  another  turn  across  the  room,  full  of  love  for  my  pretty  wife,  and  distracted 
by  self-accusatory  inclinations  to  knock  my  head  against  the  door.  I  sat  down  again, 
and  said — 

'  I  am  not  blaming  you,  Dora.  We  have  both  a  great  deal  to  learn.  I  am  only 
trying  to  show  you,  my  dear,  that  you  must — you  really  must  '  (I  was  resolved  not 
to  give  this  up)  '  accustom  yourself  to  look  after  Mary  Anne.  Likewise  to  act  a  little 
for  yourself,  and  me.' 

'  I  wonder,  I  do,  at  your  making  such  ungrateful  speeches,'  sobbed  Dora.  '  When 
you  know  that  the  other  day,  when  you  said  you  would  like  a  little  bit  of  fish,  I  went 
out  myself,  miles  and  miles,  and  ordered  it  to  surprise  you.' 

'  And  it  was  very  kind  of  you,  my  own  darling,'  said  I.  '  I  felt  it  so  much  that  I 
wouldn't  on  any  account  have  even  mentioned  that  you  bought  a  salmon — which  was 
too  much  for  two.    Or  that  it  cost  one  pound  six — which  was  more  than  we  can  afford.' 

'  You  enjoyed  it  very  much,'  sobbed  Dora.     '  And  you  said  I  was  a  mouse.' 

'  And  I  '11  say  so  again,  my  love,'  I  returned,  '  a  thousand  times  !  ' 

But  I  had  wounded  Dora's  soft  little  heart,  and  she  was  not  to  be  comforted. 
She  was  so  pathetic  in  her  sobbing  and  bewailing,  that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  said  I  don't 
know  what  to  hurt  her.  I  was  obliged  to  hurry  away  ;  I  was  kept  out  late  ;  and  I 
felt  all  night  such  pangs  of  remorse  as  made  me  miserable.  I  had  the  conscience  of 
an  assassin,  and  was  haunted  by  a  vague  sense  of  enormous  wickedness. 

It  was  two  or  three  hours  past  midnight  when  I  got  home.  I  found  my  aunt, 
in  our  house,  sitting  up  for  me. 

'  Is  anything  the  matter,  aunt  ?  '  said  I,  alarmed. 

'  Nothing,  Trot,'  she  replied.  '  Sit  down,  sit  down.  Little  Blossom  has  been 
rather  out  of  spirits,  and  I  have  been  keeping  her  company.     That 's  all.' 

I  leaned  my  head  upon  my  hand  :  and  felt  more  sorry  and  downcast,  as  I  sat 
looking  at  the  fire,  than  I  could  have  supposed  possible  so  soon  after  the  fulfilment  of 
my  brightest  hopes.  As  I  sat  thinking,  I  happened  to  meet  my  aunt's  eyes,  which 
were  resting  on  my  face.  There  was  an  anxious  expression  in  them,  but  it  cleared 
directly. 

'  I  assure  you,  aunt,'  said  I,  '  I  have  been  quite  unhappy  myself  all  night,  to  think 
of  Dora's  being  so.  But  I  had  no  other  intention  than  to  speak  to  her  tenderly  and 
lovingly  about  our  home-affairs.' 

My  aunt  nodded  encouragement. 

'  You  must  have  patience.  Trot,'  said  she. 

'  Of  course.     Heaven  knows  I  don't  mean  to  be  unreasonable,  aunt !  ' 

'  No,  no,'  said  my  aunt.  '  But  Little  Blossom  is  a  very  tender  little  blossom, 
and  the  wind  must  be  gentle  with  her.' 

I  thanked  my  good  aunt,  in  my  heart,  for  her  tenderness  towards  my  wife  ;  and 
I  was  sure  that  she  knew  I  did. 


OUR  HOUSEKEEPING  415 

'  Don't  you  think,  aunt,'  said  I,  after  some  further  contemplation  of  the  fire, 
'  that  you  could  advise  and  counsel  Dora  a  little,  for  our  mutual  advantage,  now 
and  then  ?  ' 

'  Trot,'  returned  my  aunt,  with  some  emotion,  '  no  !     Don't  ask  me  such  a  thing.' 

Her  tone  was  so  very  earnest  that  I  raised  my  eyes  in  surprise. 

'  I  look  hack  on  my  life,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  I  think  of  some  who  are  in  their 
graves,  with  whom  I  might  have  been  on  kinder  terms.  If  I  jiifiged  harshly  of  other 
people's  mistakes  in  marriage,  it  may  have  been  because  I  had  bitter  reason  to  judge 
harshly  of  my  own.  Let  that  pass.  I  have  been  a  gruniphy,  frumpy,  wayward  sort 
of  a  woman,  a  good  many  years.  I  am  still,  and  I  always  shall  he.  But  you  and  I 
have  done  one  another  some  good.  Trot — at  all  events,  you  have  done  me  good,  my 
dear  ;   and  division  must  not  come  between  us,  at  this  time  of  day.' 

'  Division  between  us  !  '    cried  I. 

'  Child,  child  !  '  said  my  aunt,  smoothing  her  dress,  '  how  soon  it  might  come 
between  us,  or  how  unhappy  I  might  make  our  Little  Blossom,  if  I  meddled  in 
anything,  a  prophet  couldn't  say.  I  want  our  pet  to  like  me,  and  be  as  gay  as  a 
butterfly.  Remember  your  own  home,  in  that  second  marriage  ;  and  never  do  both 
me  and  her  the  injury  you  have  hinted  at  !  ' 

I  comprehended,  at  once,  that  my  aunt  was  right ;  and  I  comprehended  the  full 
extent  of  her  generous  feeling  towards  my  dear  wife. 

'  These  are  early  days.  Trot,'  she  pursued,  '  and  Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day, 
nor  in  a  year.  You  have  chosen  freely  for  yourself '  ;  a  cloud  passed  over  her  face  for 
a  moment,  I  thought ;  '  and  you  have  chosen  a  very  pretty  and  a  very  affectionate 
creature.  It  will  be  your  duty,  and  it  will  be  your  pleasure  too — of  course  I  know 
that ;  I  am  not  delivering  a  lecture — to  estimate  her  (as  you  chose  her)  by  the  qualities 
she  has,  and  not  by  the  qualities  she  may  not  have.  The  latter  you  must  develop 
in  her,  if  you  can.  And  if  you  cannot,  child,'  here  my  aunt  rubbed  her  nose,  '  you 
must  just  accustom  yourself  to  do  without  'em.  But  remember,  my  dear,  your 
future  is  between  you  two.  No  one  can  assist  you  ;  you  are  to  work  it  out  for  your- 
selves. This  is  marriage,  Trot ;  and  Heaven  bless  you  both  in  it,  for  a  pair  of  babes 
in  the  wood  as  you  are  !  ' 

My  aunt  said  this  in  a  sprightly  way,  and  gave  me  a  kiss  to  ratify  the 
blessing. 

'  Now,'  said  she,  '  light  my  little  lantern,  and  see  me  into  my  band-box  by  the 
garden  path  '  ;  for  there  was  a  communication  between  our  cottages  in  that  direction. 
'  Give  Betsey  Trotwood's  love  to  Blossom,  when  you  come  back  ;  and  whatever  you 
do.  Trot,  never  dream  of  setting  Betsey  up  as  a  scarecrow,  for  if  /  ever  saw  her  in  the 
glass,  she  's  quite  grim  enough  and  gaunt  enough  in  her  private  capacity  !  ' 

With  this  my  aunt  tied  her  head  up  in  a  handkerchief,  with  which  she  was 
accustomed  to  make  a  bundle  of  it  on  such  occasions  ;  and  I  escorted  her  home.  As 
she  stood  in  her  garden,  holding  up  her  little  lantern  to  light  me  back,  I  thought  her 
observation  of  me  had  an  anxious  air  again  ;  but  I  was  too  much  occupied  in  pondering 
on  what  she  had  said,  and  too  much  impressed — for  the  first  time,  in  reality — by  the 
conviction  that  Dora  and  I  had  indeed  to  work  out  our  future  for  ourselves,  and  that 
no  one  could  assist  us,  to  take  much  notice  of  it. 

Dora  came  stealing  down  in  her  little  slippers,  to  meet  me,  now  that  I  was  alone  ; 
and  cried  upon  my  shoulder,  and  said  I  had  been  hard-hearted  and  she  had  been 
naughty  ;    and  I  said  much  the  same  thing  in  effect,  I  believe  :    and  we  made  it  up, 


416  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

and  agreed  that  our  first  little  difference  was  to  be  our  last,  and  that  we  were  never 
to  have  another  if  we  lived  a  hundred  years. 

The  next  domestic  trial  we  went  through,  was  the  Ordeal  of  Servants.  Mary 
Anne's  cousin  deserted  into  our  coal-hole,  and  was  brought  out,  to  our  great  amaze- 
ment, by  a  piquet  of  his  companions  in  arms,  who  took  him  away  handcuffed  in  a 
procession  that  covered  our  front-garden  %vith  ignominy.  This  nerved  me  to  get  rid 
of  Mary  Anne,  who  went  so  mildly,  on  receipt  of  wages,  that  I  was  surprised,  until  I 
found  out  about  the  tea-spoons,  and  also  about  the  little  sums  she  had  borrowed  in 
my  name  of  the  tradespeople  without  authority.  After  an  interval  of  Mrs.  Kidgerbury 
— the  oldest  inhabitant  of  Kentish  Town,  I  believe,  who  went  out  charing,  but  was 
too  feeble  to  execute  her  conceptions  of  that  art — we  found  another  treasure,  who 
was  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  women,  but  who  generally  made  a  point  of  falling 
either  up  or  down  the  kitchen-stairs  with  the  tray,  and  almost  plunged  into  the  parlour, 
as  into  a  bath,  with  the  tea-things.  The  ravages  committed  by  this  unfortunate 
rendering  her  dismissal  necessary,  she  was  succeeded  (with  intervals  of  Mrs.  Kidgerbury) 
by  a  long  line  of  Incapables  ;  terminating  in  a  young  person  of  genteel  appearance, 
who  went  to  Greenwich  Fair  in  Dora's  bonnet.  After  whom  I  remember  nothing  but 
an  average  equality  of  failure. 

Everybody  we  had  anything  to  do  with  seemed  to  cheat  us.  Our  appearance 
in  a  shop  was  a  signal  for  the  damaged  goods  to  be  brought  out  immediately.  If  we 
bought  a  lobster,  it  was  full  of  water.  All  our  meat  turned  out  to  be  tough,  and  there 
was  hardly  any  crust  to  our  loaves.  In  search  of  the  principle  on  which  joints  ought 
to  be  roasted,  to  be  roasted  enough,  and  not  too  much,  I  myself  referred  to  the  Cookery 
Book,  and  found  it  there  established  as  the  allowance  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  every 
pound,  and  say  a  quarter  over.  But  the  principle  always  failed  us  by  some  curious 
fatality,  and  we  never  could  hit  any  medium  between  redness  and  cinders. 

I  had  reason  to  believe  that  in  accomplishing  these  failures  we  incurred  a  far 
greater  expense  than  if  we  had  achieved  a  series  of  triumphs.  It  appeared  to  me, 
on  looking  over  the  tradesmen's  books,  as  if  we  might  have  kept  the  basement  story 
paved  with  butter,  such  was  the  extensive  scale  of  our  consumption  of  that  article. 
I  don't  know  whether  the  Excise  returns  of  the  period  may  have  exhibited  any  increase 
in  the  demand  for  pepper  ;  but  if  our  performances  did  not  effect  the  market,  I  should 
say  several  families  must  have  left  off  using  it.  And  the  most  wonderful  fact  of  all 
was,  that  we  never  had  anything  in  the  house. 

As  to  the  washerwoman  pawning  the  clothes,  and  coming  in  a  state  of  penitent 
intoxication  to  apologise,  I  suppose  that  might  have  happened  several  times  to  any- 
body. Also  the  chimney  on  fire,  the  parish  engine,  and  perjury  on  the  part  of  the 
beadle.  But  I  apprehend  that  we  were  personally  laofortunate  in  engaging  a  servant 
with  a  taste  for  cordials,  who  swelled  our  running  account  for  porter  at  the  public- 
house  by  such  inexplicable  items  as  '  quartern  rum  shrub  (Mrs.  C.)  '  ;  '  Half-quartern 
gin  and  cloves  (Mrs.  C.) '  ;  '  Glass  rum  and  peppermint  (Mrs.  C.) '  ; — the  parentheses 
always  referring  to  Dora,  who  was  supposed,  it  appeared  on  explanation,  to  have 
imbibed  the  whole  of  these  refreshments. 

One  of  oiu-  first  feats  in  the  housekeeping  way  was  a  little  dinner  to  Traddles. 
I  met  him  in  town,  and  asked  him  to  walk  out  with  me  that  afternoon.  He  readily 
consenting,  I  wrote  to  Dora,  saying  I  would  bring  him  home.  It  was  pleasant  weather, 
and  on  the  road  we  made  my  domestic  happiness  the  theme  of  conversation.  Traddles 
was  very  full  of  it ;    and  said,  that,  picturing  himself  with  such  a  home,  and  Sophy 


OUR  HOUSEKEEPING  417 

waiting  and  preparing  for  him,  he  could  t,hiril<  of  nothing  wanting  to  complete  his 
bliss. 

I  could  not  have  wished  for  ;i  prettier  IlLlie  wife  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
tublc,  but  I  certainly  could  have  wIsIkh],  when  we  sat  down,  for  a  little  more  room. 
I  did  not  know  how  it  was,  but  though  there  were  only  two  of  us,  we  were  at  once 
always  cramped  for  room,  and  yet  had  always  room  enough  to  lose  everything  in.  I 
suspect  it  may  have  been  because  nothing  had  a  place  of  its  own,  except  Jip's  pagoda, 
which  invariably  blocked  up  the  main  thoroughfare.  On  the  present  occasion, 
Traddles  was  so  hemmed  in  by  the  pagoda  and  the  guitar-case  and  Dora's  flower- 
painting,  and  my  writing-table,  that  I  had  serious  doubts  of  the  possibility  of  his 
using  his  knife  and  fork  ;  but  he  protested,  with  his  own  good-humour,  '  Oceans  of 
room,  Copperfield  !     I  assure  you,  oceans  !  ' 

There  was  another  thing  I  could  have  wished  ;  namely,  that  Jip  had  never  been 
encouraged  to  walk  about  the  table-cloth  during  dinner.  I  began  to  think  there  was 
something  disorderly  in  his  being  there  at  all,  even  if  he  had  not  been  in  the  habit 
of  putting  his  foot  in  the  salt  or  the  melted- butter.  On  this  occasion  he  seemed  to 
think  he  was  introduced  expressly  to  keep  Traddles  at  bay  ;  and  he  barked  at  my 
old  friend,  and  made  short  runs  at  his  plate,  with  such  undaunted  pertinacity,  that  he 
may  be  said  to  have  engrossed  the  conversation. 

However,  as  I  knew  how  tender-hearted  my  dear  Uora  was,  and  how  sensitive 
she  would  be  to  any  slight  upon  her  favourite,  I  hinted  no  oljjection.  For  similar 
reasons  I  made  no  allusion  to  the  skirmishing  plates  upon  the  floor  ;  or  to  the  dis- 
reputable appearance  of  the  castors,  which  were  all  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and  looked 
drunk  ;  or  to  the  further  blockade  of  Traddles  by  wandering  vegetable  dishes  and 
jugs.  I  could  not  help  wondering  in  my  own  mind,  as  I  contemplated  the  boiled  leg 
of  mutton  before  me,  previous  to  carving  it,  how  it  came  to  pass  that  our  joints  of 
meat  were  of  such  extraordinary  shapes — and  whether  our  butcher  contracted  for  all 
the  deformed  sheep  that  came  into  the  world  ;   but  I  kept  my  reflections  to  myself. 

'  My  love,'  said  I  to  Dora,  '  what  have  you  got  in  that  dish  ?  ' 

I  could  not  imagine  why  Dora  had  been  making  tempting  little  faces  at  me,  as 
if  she  wanted  to  kiss  me. 

'  Oysters,  dear,'  said  Dora,  timidly. 

'  Was  that  your  thought  ?  '    said  I,  delighted. 

'  Ye-yes,  Doady,'  said  Dora. 

'  There  never  was  a  happier  one  !  '  I  exclaimed,  laying  do^vn  the  carving-knife 
and  fork.     '  There  is  nothing  Traddles  likes  so  much  !  ' 

'  Ye-yes,  Doady,'  said  Dora,  '  and  so  I  bought  a  beautiful  little  barrel  of  them, 
and  the  man  said  they  were  very  good.  But  I — I  am  afraid  there  's  something  the 
matter  with  them.  They  don't  seem  right.'  Here  Dora  shook  her  head,  and  diamonds 
twinkled  in  her  eyes. 

'  They  are  only  opened  in  both  shells,'  said  I.     '  Take  the  top  one  off,  my  love.' 

'  But  it  won't  come  off,'  said  Dora,  trying  very  hard,  and  looking  very  much 
distressed. 

'  Do  you  knoAv,  Copperfield,'  said  Traddles,  cheerfully  examining  the  dish,  "  I 
think  it  is  in  consequence — they  are  capital  oysters,  but  I  think  it  is  in  consequence— 
of  their  never  having  been  opened.' 

They  never  had  been  opened  ;  and  we  had  no  oyster-knives — and  couldn't  have 
used  them  if  we  had  ;    so  we  looked  at  the  ovsters  and  ate  the  mutton.     At  least  we 


418  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

ate  as  much  of  it  as  was  done,  and  made  up  with  capers.  If  I  had  permitted  him,  I 
am  satisfied  that  Traddles  would  have  made  a  perfect  savage  of  himself,  and  eaten 
a  plateful  of  raw  meat,  to  express  enjoyment  of  the  repast  ;  but  I  would  hear  of  no 
such  immolation  on  the  altar  of  friendship  ;  and  we  had  a  course  of  bacon  instead  ; 
there  happening,  by  good  fortune,  to  be  cold  bacon  in  the  larder. 

My  poor  little  wife  was  in  such  affliction  when  she  thought  I  should  be  annoyed, 
and  in  such  a  state  of  joy  when  she  found  I  was  not,  that  the  discomfiture  I  had 
subdued  very  soon  vanished,  and  we  passed  a  happy  evening  ;  Dora  sitting  with  her 
arm  on  my  chair  while  Traddles  and  I  discussed  a  glass  of  wine,  and  taking  every 
opportunity  of  whispering  in  my  ear  that  it  was  so  good  of  me  not  to  be  a  cruel,  cross 
old  boy.  By  and  by  she  made  tea  for  us  ;  which  it  was  so  pretty  to  see  her  do,  as  if 
she  was  busying  herself  with  a  set  of  doll's  tea-things,  that  I  was  not  particular  about 
the  quality  of  the  beverage.  Then  Traddles  and  I  played  a  game  or  two  at  cribbage  ; 
and  Dora  singing  to  the  guitar  the  while,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  our  courtship  and 
marriage  were  a  tender  dream  of  mine,  and  the  night  when  I  first  listened  to  her  voice 
were  not  yet  over. 

When  Traddles  went  away,  and  I  came  back  into  the  parlour  from  seeing  him 
out,  my  wife  planted  her  chair  close  to  mine,  and  sat  down  by  my  side. 

'  I  am  very  sorry,'  she  said.     '  Will  you  try  to  teach  me,  Doady  ?  ' 

'  I  must  teach  myself  first,  Dora,'  said  I.     '  I  am  as  bad  as  you,  love.' 

'  Ah  !     But  you  can  learn,'  she  returned  ;   '  and  you  are  a  clever,  clever  man  !  ' 

'  Nonsense,  mouse  !  '    said  I. 

'  I  wish,'  resumed  my  wife,  after  a  long  silence,  '  that  I  could  have  gone  down 
into  the  country  for  a  whole  year,  and  lived  with  Agnes  !  ' 

Her  hands  were  clasped  upon  my  shoulder,  and  her  chin  rested  on  them,  and  her 
blue  eyes  looked  quietly  into  mine. 

'  Why  so  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  I  think  she  might  have  improved  me,  and  I  think  I  might  have  learned  from 
her,'  said  Dora. 

'  All  in  good  time,  my  love.  Agnes  has  had  her  father  to  take  care  of  for  these 
many  years,  you  should  remember.  Even  when  she  was  quite  a  child,  she  was  the 
Agnes  whom  we  know,'  said  I. 

'  Will  you  call  me  a  name  I  want  you  to  call  me  ?  '  inquired  Dora,  without 
moving . 

'  What  is  it  ?  '    I  asked  with  a  smile. 

'  It 's  a  stupid  name,'  she  said,  shaking  her  curls  for  a  moment.     '  Child-wife.' 

I  laughingly  asked  my  child-wife,  what  her  fancy  was  in  desiring  to  be  so  called. 
She  answered  without  moving,  otherwise  than  as  the  arm  I  twined  about  her  may 
have  brought  her  blue  eyes  nearer  to  me — 

'  I  don't  mean,  you  silly  fellow,  that  you  should  use  the  name  instead  of  Dora. 
I  only  mean  that  you  should  think  of  me  that  way.  When  you  are  going  to  be  angry 
with  me,  say  to  yourself,  "  it 's  only  my  child-wife  !  "  When  I  am  very  disappointing, 
say,  "  I  knew,  a  long  time  ago,  that  she  would  make  but  a  child-wife  !  "  When  you 
miss  what  I  should  like  to  be,  and  I  think  can  never  be,  say,  "  still  my  foolish  child- 
wife  loves  me  !  "     For  indeed  I  do.' 

I  had  not  been  serious  with  her  ;  having  no  idea,  until  now,  that  she  was  serious 
herself.  But  her  affectionate  nature  was  so  happy  in  what  I  now  said  to  her  with 
my  whole  heart,  that  her  face  became  a  laughing  one  before  her  glittering  eyes  were 


OUR  HOUSEKEEPING  419 

dry.  She  was  soon  my  nhild-wife  iiirleccl  ;  sitting  down  on  the  floor  outside  the 
Cliinese  house,  ringing  all  the  little  hells  one  after  another,  to  punish  Jip  for  his  recent 
bad  behaviour  ;  while  Jip  lay  blinking  in  the  doorway  with  his  head  out,  even  too 
lazy  to  be  teased. 

This  appeal  of  Dora's  made  a  strong  impression  on  me.  I  look  back  on  the  time 
I  write  of ;  I  invoke  the  innocent  figure  that  I  dearly  loved,  to  come  out  from  the 
mists  and  shadows  of  the  past,  and  turn  its  gentle  head  towards  me  once  again  ;  and 
I  can  still  declare  that  this  one  little  speech  was  constantly  in  my  memory.  I  may 
not  have  used  it  to  the  best  account  ;  I  was  young  and  inexperienced  ;  but  I  never 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  its  artless  pleading. 

Dora  told  me,  shortly  afterwards,  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  wonderful  house- 
keeper. Accordingly,  she  polished  the  tablets,  pointed  the  pencil,  bought  an  immense 
account-book,  carefully  stitched  up  with  a  needle  and  thread  all  the  leaves  of  the 
Cookery  Book  which  Jip  had  torn,  and  made  quite  a  desperate  little  attempt  '  to  be 
good,'  as  she  called  it.  But  the  figures  had  the  old  obstinate  propensity — they  would 
not  add  up.  When  she  had  entered  two  or  three  laborious  items  in  the  account-book, 
Jip  would  walk  over  the  page,  wagging  his  tail,  and  smear  them  all  out.  Her  own 
little  right-hand  middle  finger  got  steeped  to  the  very  bone  in  ink  ;  and  I  think  that 
was  the  only  decided  result  obtained. 

Sometimes,  of  an  evening,  when  I  was  at  home  and  at  work — for  I  wrote  a  good 
deal  now,  and  was  beginning  in  a  small  way  to  be  known  as  a  writer — I  would  lay 
down  my  pen,  and  watch  my  child-wife  trying  to  be  good.  First  of  all,  she  would 
bring  out  the  immense  account-book,  and  lay  it  down  upon  the  table,  with  a  deep 
sigh.  Then  she  would  open  it  at  the  place  where  Jip  had  made  it  illegible  last  night, 
and  call  Jip  up  to  look  at  his  misdeeds.  This  would  occasion  a  diversion  in  Jip's 
favour,  and  some  inking  of  his  nose,  perhaps,  as  a  penalty.  Then  she  would  tell  Jip 
to  lie  down  on  the  table  instantly,  '  like  a  lion  ' — which  was  one  of  his  tricks,  though 
I  cannot  say  the  likeness  was  striking — and,  if  he  were  in  an  obedient  humour,  he 
would  obey.  Then  she  would  take  up  a  pen,  and  begin  to  write,  and  find  a  hair  in  it. 
Then  she  would  take  up  another  pen,  and  begin  to  write,  and  find  that  it  spluttered. 
Then  she  would  take  up  another  pen,  and  begin  to  write,  and  say  in  a  low  voice,  '  Oh, 
it 's  a  talking  pen,  and  will  disturb  Doady  !  '  And  then  she  would  give  it  up  as  a  bad 
job,  and  put  the  account-book  away,  after  pretending  to  crush  the  lion  with  it. 

Or,  if  she  were  in  a  very  sedate  and  serious  state  of  mind,  she  would  sit  down 
with  the  tablets,  and  a  little  basket  of  bills,  and  other  documents,  which  looked  more 
like  curl-papers  than  anything  else,  and  endeavour  to  get  some  result  out  of  them. 
After  severely  comparing  one  with  another,  and  making  entries  on  the  tablets,  and 
blotting  them  out,  and  counting  all  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand  over  and  over  again, 
backwards  and  forwards,  she  would  be  so  vexed  and  discouraged,  and  would  look 
so  unhappy,  that  it  gave  me  pain  to  see  her  bright  face  clouded — and  for  me  ! — and 
I  would  go  softly  to  her,  and  say — 

'  What  's  the  matter,  Dora  ?  ' 

Dora  would  look  up  hopelessly,  and  reply,  '  They  won't  come  right.  They  make 
my  head  ache  so.     And  they  won't  do  anything  I  want  !  ' 

Then  I  would  say,  '  Now  let  us  try  together.     Let  me  show  you,  Dora.' 

Then  I  would  commence  a  practical  demonstration,  to  which  Dora  would  pay 
profound  attention,  perhaps  for  five  minutes  ;  when  she  would  begin  to  be  dreadfully 
tired,  and  would  lighten  the  subject  by  curling  my  hair,  or  trying  the  effect  of  my 


420  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

face  with  my  shirt-collar  turned  down.  If  I  tacitly  checked  this  playfulness,  and 
persisted,  she  would  look  so  scared  and  disconsolate,  as  she  became  more  and  more 
bewildered,  that  the  remembrance  of  her  natural  gaiety  when  I  first  strayed  into  her 
path,  and  of  her  being  my  child-wife,  would  come  reproachfully  upon  me  ;  and  I  would 
lay  the  pencil  down,  and  call  for  the  guitar. 

I  had  a  great  deal  of  work  to  do,  and  had  many  anxieties,  but  the  same  con- 
siderations made  me  keep  them  to  myself.  I  am  far  from  sure,  now,  that  it  was  right 
to  do  this,  but  I  did  it  for  my  child-wife's  sake.  I  search  my  breast,  and  I  commit 
its  secrets,  if  I  know  them,  without  any  reservation  to  this  paper.  The  old  unhappy 
loss  or  want  of  something  had,  I  am  conscious,  some  place  in  my  heart ;  but  not  to 
the  embitterment  of  my  life.  When  I  walked  alone  in  the  fine  weather,  and  thought 
of  the  summer  days  when  all  the  air  had  been  filled  with  my  boyish  enchantment, 
I  did  miss  something  of  the  realisation  of  my  dreams  ;  but  I  thought  it  was  a  softened 
glory  of  the  past,  which  nothing  could  have  thrown  upon  the  present  time.  I  did 
feel,  sometimes,  for  a  little  while,  that  I  could  have  wished  my  wife  had  been  miy 
counsellor  ;  had  had  more  character  and  purpose,  to  sustain  me,  and  improve  me  by  ; 
had  been  endowed  with  power  to  fill  up  the  void  which  somewhere  seemed  to  be  about 
me  ;  but  I  felt  as  if  this  were  an  unearthly  consummation  of  my  happiness,  that  never 
had  been  meant  to  be,  and  never  could  have  been. 

I  was  a  boyish  husband  as  to  years.  I  had  known  the  softening  influence  of  no 
other  sorrows  or  experiences  than  those  recorded  in  these  leaves.  If  I  did  any  wrong, 
as  I  may  have  done  much,  I  did  it  in  mistaken  love,  and  in  my  want  of  wisdom.  I 
write  the  exact  truth.     It  would  avail  me  nothing  to  extenuate  it  now. 

Thus  it  was  that  I  took  upon  myself  the  toils  and  cares  of  our  life,  and  had  no 
partner  in  them.  We  lived  much  as  before,  in  reference  to  our  scrambling  household 
arrangements  ;  but  I  had  got  used  to  those,  and  Dora  I  was  pleased  to  see  was  seldom 
vexed  now.  She  was  bright  and  cheerful  in  the  old  childish  way,  loved  me  dearly, 
and  was  happy  with  her  old  trifles. 

When  the  debates  were  heavy — I  mean  as  to  length,  not  quality,  for  in  the  last 
respect  they  were  not  often  otherwise — and  I  went  home  late,  Dora  would  never 
rest  when  she  heard  my  footsteps,  but  would  always  come  downstairs  to  meet  me. 
When  my  evenings  were  unoccupied  by  the  pursuit  for  which  I  had  qualified  myself 
with  so  much  pains,  and  I  was  engaged  in  writing  at  home,  she  would  sit  quietly  near 
me,  however  late  the  hour,  and  be  so  mute,  that  I  would  often  think  she  had  dropped 
asleep.  But  generally,  when  I  raised  my  head,  I  saw  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  me 
with  the  quiet  attention  of  which  I  have  already  spoken. 

'  Oh,  what  a  weary  boy  !  '  said  Dora  one  night,  when  I  met  her  eyes  as  I  was 
shutting  up  my  desk. 

'  What  a  weary  girl  !  '  said  I.  '  That 's  more  to  the  purpose.  You  must  go  to 
bed  another  time,  my  love.     It 's  far  too  late  for  you.' 

'  No,  don't  send  me  to  bed  !  '  pleaded  Dora,  coming  to  my  side.  '  Pray,  don't 
do  that  !  ' 

'  Dora  !  ' 

To  my  amazement  she  was  sobbing  on  my  neck. 

'  Not  well,  my  dear  ?   not  happy  ?  ' 

'  Yes  !  quite  well,  and  very  happy  !  '  said  Dora.  '  But  say  you  'II  let  me  stop, 
and  see  you  write.' 

'  Wliy,  what  a  sight  for  such  bright  eyes  at  midnight  !  '   I  replied. 


OUR  IIOUSEKEEPrNCi  421 

'  Are  they  bright,  though  V  '  returiiecl  Dora,  laughing.  '  I  'in  so  glad  they  're 
bright." 

'  Little  Vanity  !  '    said  I. 

Rut  it  was  not  vanity  ;  it  was  only  harmless  delight  in  my  admiration.  I  knew 
that  very  well,  before  she  told  nie  so. 

'  If  you  think  them  pretty,  say  I  may  always  stop,  and  see  you  write  I  '  said  Dora. 
'  Do  you  think  them  pretty  ?  ' 

'  Very  pretty.' 

'  Then  let  me  always  stop  and  see  you  write.' 

'  I  am  afraid  that  won't  improve  their  brightness,  Dora.' 

'  Yes,  it  will  !  Because,  you  clever  boy,  you  '11  not  forget  me  then,  while  you 
are  full  of  silent  fancies.  Will  you  mind  it,  if  I  say  something  very,  very  silly  ? — -more 
than  usual  ?  '   inquired  Dora,  peeping  over  my  shoulder  into  my  face. 

'  What  wonderful  thing  is  that  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Please  let  me  hold  the  pens,'  said  Doru.  '  I  want  to  have  something  to  do  with 
all  those  many  hours  when  you  are  so  industrious.     May  I  hold  the  pens  ?  ' 

The  remembrance  of  her  pretty  joy  when  I  said  Yes,  brings  tears  into  my  eyes. 
The  next  time  I  sat  down  to  write,  and  regularly  afterwards,  she  sat  in  her  old  place, 
with  a  spare  bundle  of  pens  at  her  side.  Her  triumph  in  this  connection  with  my 
work,  and  her  delight  when  I  wanted  a  new  pen — which  I  very  often  feigned  to  do — 
suggested  to  me  a  new  way  of  pleasing  my  child-wife.  I  occasionally  made  a  pretence 
of  wanting  a  page  or  two  of  manuscript  copied.  Then  Dora  was  in  her  glory.  The 
preparations  she  made  for  this  great  work,  the  aprons  she  put  on,  the  bibs  she  borrowed 
from  the  kitchen  to  keep  off  the  ink,  the  time  she  took,  the  iniuimerable  stoppages 
she  made  to  have  a  laugh  with  Jip  as  if  he  understood  it  all,  her  conviction  that  her 
work  was  incomplete  unless  she  signed  her  name  at  the  end,  and  the  way  in  which  she 
would  bring  it  to  me,  like  a  school-copy,  and  then,  when  T  praised  it,  clasp  me  round 
the  neck,  are  touching  recollections  to  me,  simple  as  they  might  appear  to  other  men. 

She  took  possession  of  the  keys  soon  after  this,  and  went  jingling  about  the  house 
with  the  whole  bunch  in  a  little  basket,  tied  to  her  slender  waist.  I  seldom  found 
that  the  places  to  which  they  belonged  were  locked,  or  that  they  were  of  any  use 
except  as  a  plaything  for  Jip — but  Dora  was  pleased,  and  that  pleased  me.  She  was 
quite  satisfied  that  a  good  deal  was  effected  by  this  make-belief  of  housekeeping  ; 
and  was  as  merry  as  if  we  had  been  keeping  a  baby-house,  for  a  joke. 

So  we  went  on.  Dora  was  hardly  less  affectionate  to  my  aunt  than  to  me,  and 
often  told  her  of  the  time  when  she  was  afraid  she  was  '  a  cross  old  thing.'  I  never 
saw  my  aunt  unbend  more  systematically  to  any  one.  She  courted  Jip,  though  Jip 
never  responded  ;  listened,  day  after  day,  to  the  guitar,  though  I  am  afraid  she  had 
no  taste  for  music  ;  never  attacked  the  Incapables,  though  the  temptation  nuist  have 
been  severe  ;  went  wonderful  distances  on  foot  to  purchase,  as  surprises,  any  trifles 
that  she  found  out  Dora  wanted  ;  and  never  came  in  by  the  garden,  and  missed  her 
from  the  room,  but  she  would  call  out,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
cheerfully  all  over  the  house — 

'  Where  's  Little  Blossom  ?  ' 


CHAPTER    XLV 


MR.    DICK    FULFILS    MY    AUNTS    PREDICTIONS 

IT  was  some  time  now,  since  I  had  left  the  Doctor.     Living  in  his  neighbourhood, 
I  saw  him  frequently  ;    and  we  all  went  to  his  house  on  two  or  three  occasions 
to   dinner  or  tea.     The   Old   Soldier  was   in   permanent   quarters  under  the 
Doctor's  roof.     She  was  exactly  the  same  as  ever,  and  the  same  immortal 
butterflies  hovered  over  her  cap. 

Like  some  other  mothers,  whom  I  have  known  in  the  course  of  my  life,  Mrs. 
Markleham  was  far  more  fond  of  pleasure  than  her  daughter  was.  She  required  a 
great  deal  of  amusement,  and,  like  a  deep  old  soldier,  pretended,  in  consulting  her 
own  inclinations,  to  be  devoting  herself  to  her  child.  The  Doctor's  desire  that  Annie 
should  be  entertained  was  therefore  particularly  acceptable  to  this  excellent  parent ; 
who  expressed  unqualified  approval  of  his  discretion. 

I  have  no  doubt,  indeed,  that  she  probed  the  Doctor's  wound  without  knowing 
it.  Meaning  nothing  but  a  certain  matured  frivolity  and  selfishness,  not  always 
inseparable  from  full-blown  years,  I  think  she  confirmed  him  in  his  fear  that  he  was 
a  constraint  upon  his  young  wife,  and  that  there  was  no  congeniality  of  feeling  between 
them,  by  so  strongly  commending  his  design  of  lightening  the  load  of  her  life. 

'  My  dear  soul,'  she  said  to  him  one  day  when  I  was  present,  '  you  know  there  is 
no  doubt  it  would  be  a  little  pokey  for  Annie  to  be  always  shut  up  here.' 

The  Doctor  nodded  his  benevolent  head. 

'  When  she  comes  to  her  mother's  age,'  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  with  a  flourish  of 
her  fan,  '  then  it  '11  be  another  thing.  You  might  put  me  into  a  jail,  with  genteel 
society  and  a  rubber,  and  I  should  never  care  to  come  out.  But  I  am  not  Annie, 
you  know  ;   and  Annie  is  not  her  mother.' 

'  Surely,  surely,'  said  the  Doctor. 

'  You  are  the  best  of  creatures — no,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  '  for  the  Doctor  made 
a  gesture  of  deprecation,  '  I  must  say  before  your  face,  as  I  always  say  behind  your 
back,  you  are  the  best  of  creatures  ;  but  of  course  you  don't^ — now  do  you  ? — enter 
into  the  same  pursuits  and  fancies  as  Annie.' 

'  No,'  said  the  Doctor,  in  a  sorrowful  tone. 

'  No,  of  course  not,'  retorted  the  Old  Soldier.  '  Take  your  Dictionary,  for 
example.  What  a  useful  work  a  Dictionary  is  !  What  a  necessary  work  !  The 
meanings  of  words  !  Without  Doctor  Johnson,  or  somebody  of  that  sort,  we  might 
have  been  at  this  present  moment  calling  an  Italian-iron  a  bedstead.  But  we  can't 
expect  a  Dictionary — especially  when  it 's  making — to  interest  Annie,  can  we  ?  ' 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head. 

'  And  that 's  why  I  so  much  approve,'  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  shut-up  fan,  '  of  your  thoughtfulness.  It  shows  that  you  don't 
expect,  as  many  elderly  people  do  expect,  old  heads  on  young  shoulders.  You  have 
studied  Annie's  character,  and  you  understand  it.     Thai 's  what  I  find  so  charming  !  ' 

Even  the  calm  and  patient  face  of  Doctor  Strong  expressed  some  little  sense  of 

pain,  I  thought,  imder  the  infliction  of  these  compliments. 
4a 


MR    DICK    I  ULKILS  MY  AUNT'S  PREDKTIONS       4ii3 

'Therefore,  my  dciir  Doclor,'  said  t.lie  Soldier,  ^iviiif^  iiiiii  several  affectionate 
taps,  'you  may  eommand  mc,  at  all  times  and  seasons.  Now,  do  understand  tliat 
I  am  entirely  at  your  service.  I  am  ready  to  ^o  with  Annie  to  operas,  concerts, 
exhi})itions,  all  kinds  of  places  ;  and  \-ou  shall  never  find  that  I  am  tired.  Duty, 
my  dear  Doctor,  before  every  consideration  in  the  universe  I  ' 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She  was  one  of  those  people  who  can  bear  a  preat 
deal  of  pleasure,  and  she  never  flinched  in  her  perseverance  in  the  cause.  She  seldom 
got  hold  of  the  newspaper  (which  she  settled  herself  down  in  the  softest  chair  in  the 
house  to  read  through  an  eye-glass,  every  day,  for  two  hours),  but  she  found  out 
something  that  she  was  certain  Annie  would  like  to  see.  It  was  in  vain  for  Annie  to 
protest  that  she  was  weary  of  such  things,  ller  mother's  remonstrance  always  was, 
'  Now,  my  dear  Annie,  I  am  sure  you  know  better  ;  and  I  must  tell  you,  my  love, 
that  you  are  not  making  a  proper  return  for  the  kindness  of  Doctor  Strong." 

This  was  usually  said  in  the  Doctor's  presence,  and  apjjcared  to  me  to  constitute 
Annie's  principal  inducement  for  withdrawing  her  objections  when  she  made  any. 
But  in  general  she  resigned  herself  to  her  mother,  and  went  where  the  Old  Soldier 
would. 

It  rarely  happened  now  that  Mr.  Maldon  accompanied  them.  Sometimes  my 
aunt  and  Dora  were  invited  to  do  so,  and  accepted  the  invitation.  Sometimes  Dora 
only  was  asked.  The  time  had  been  when  I  should  have  been  uneasy  in  her  going  ; 
but  reflection  on  what  had  passed  that  former  night  in  the  Doctor's  study,  had  made 
a  change  in  my  mistrust.  I  believed  that  the  Doctor  was  right,  and  I  had  no  worse 
suspicions. 

My  aunt  rubbed  her  nose  sometimes  when  she  happened  to  be  alone  with  me, 
and  said  she  couldn't  make  it  out  ;  she  wished  they  were  happier  ;  she  didn't  think 
our  military  friend  (so  she  always  called  the  Old  Soldier)  mended  the  matter  at  all. 
My  aunt  frn-ther  expressed  her  opinion,  '  that  if  our  niilitar}-  friend  would  cut  off 
those  butterflies,  and  give  'em  to  the  chimney-sweepers  for  May  Day,  it  would  look 
like  the  beginning  of  something  sensible  on  her  part.' 

But  her  abiding  reliance  was  on  Mr.  Dick.  That  man  had  evidently  an  idea 
in  his  head,  she  said  ;  and  if  he  could  only  once  pen  it  up  into  a  corner,  which  was 
his  great  difficulty,  he  would  distinguish  himself  in  some  extraordinary  manner. 

Unconscious  of  this  prediction,  Mr.  Dick  continued  to  occupy  precisely  the  same 
ground  in  reference  to  the  Doctor  and  to  Mrs.  Strong.  He  seemed  neither  to  advance 
nor  to  recede.  He  appeared  to  have  settled  into  his  original  foundation,  like  a 
building  ;  and  I  must  confess  that  my  faith  in  his  ever  moving,  was  not  much  greater 
than  if  he  had  been  a  building. 

But  one  night,  when  I  had  been  married  some  months,  Mr.  Dick  put  his  head 
into  the  parlour,  where  I  was  writing  alone  (Dora  having  gone  out  with  my  aunt 
to  take  tea  with  the  two  little  birds),  and  said,  with  a  significant  cough — 

'  You  couldn't  speak  to  me  without  inconveniencing  yourself,  Trotwood,  I  am 
afraid  ?  ' 

'  Certainly,  Mr.  Dick,'  said  I ;    '  come  in  !  ' 

'  Trotwood,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  laying  his  finger  on  the  side  of  his  nose,  after  he  had 
shaken  hands  with  me.  '  Before  I  sit  down,  I  wish  to  make  an  observation.  You 
know  your  aunt  ?  ' 

'  A  little,'  I  replied. 

'  She  is  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,  sir  !  ' 


424  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

After  the  delivery  of  this  communication,  which  he  shot  out  of  himself  as  if  he 
were  loaded  with  it,  Mr.  Dick  sat  down  with  greater  gravity  than  usual,  and  looked 
at  me. 

'  Now,  boy,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  '  I  am  going  to  put  a  question  to  you.' 
'  As  many  as  you  please,'  said  I. 

'  What  do  you  consider  me,  sir  ?  '    asked  Mr.  Dick,  folding  his  arms. 
'  A  dear  old  friend,'  said  I. 

'  Thank  you,  Trotwood,'  returned  Mr.  Dick,  laughing,  and  reaching  across  in 
high  glee  to  shake  hands  with  me.  '  But  I  mean,  boy,'  resuming  his  gravity,  '  what 
do  3'ou  consider  me  in  this  respect  ?  '   touching  his  forehead. 

I  was  puzzled  how  to  answer,  but  he  helped  me  with  a  word. 
'  Weak  ?  '    said  Mr.  Dick. 
'  Well,'  I  replied,  dubiously.     '  Rather  so.' 

'  Exactly  !  '  cried  Mr.  Dick,  who  seemed  quite  enchanted  by  my  reply.  '  That 
is,  Trotwood,  when  they  took  some  of  the  trouble  out  of  you-know-who's  head,  and 
put  it  you  know  where,  there  was  a — — ■'  Mr.  Dick  made  his  two  hands  revolve  very 
fast  about  each  other  a  great  number  of  times,  and  then  brought  them  into  collision, 
and  rolled  them  over  and  over  one  another,  to  express  confusion.  '  There  was  that 
sort  of  thing  done  to  me  somehow.     Eh  ?  ' 

I  nodded  at  him,  and  he  nodded  back  again. 

'  In  short,  boy,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  '  I  am  simple.' 
I  would  have  qualified  that  conclusion,  but  he  stopped  me. 

'  Yes  I  am  !  She  pretends  I  am  not.  She  won't  hear  of  it ;  but  I  am.  I  know 
I  am.  If  she  hadn't  stood  my  friend,  sir,  I  should  have  been  shut  up,  to  lead  a  dismal 
life  these  many  years.  But  I  '11  provide  for  her  !  I  never  spend  the  copying  money. 
I  put  it  in  a  box.  I  have  made  a  will.  I  '11  leave  it  all  to  her.  She  shall  be  rich — 
noble  !  ' 

Mr.  Dick  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  wiped  his  eyes.  He  then  folded 
it  up  with  great  care,  pressed  it  smooth  between  his  two  hands,  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
and  seemed  to  put  my  aunt  away  with  it. 

'  Now  you  are  a  scholar,  Trotwood,'  said  Mr.  Dick.  '  You  are  a  fine  scholar. 
You  know  what  a  learned  man,  what  a  great  man,  the  Doctor  is.  You  know  what 
honour  he  has  always  done  me.  Not  proud  in  his  wisdom.  Humble,  humble — 
condescending  even  to  poor  Dick,  who  is  simple  and  knows  nothing.  I  have  sent  his 
name  up,  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  to  the  kite,  along  the  string,  when  it  has  been  in  the 
sky,  among  the  larks.  The  kite  has  been  glad  to  receive  it,  sir,  and  the  sky  has  been 
brighter  with  it.' 

I  delighted  him  by  saying,  most  heartily,  that  the  Doctor  was  deserving  of  oiu* 
best  respect  and  highest  esteem. 

'  And  his  beautiful  wife  is  a  star,'  said  Mr.  Dick.  '  A  shining  star.  I  have  seen 
her  shine,  sir.  But,'  bringing  his  chair  nearer,  and  laying  one  hand  upon  my  knee — 
'  clouds,  sir,  clouds.' 

I  answered  the  solicitude  which  his    face   expressed,  by  conveying  the    same 
expression  into  my  own,  and  shaking  my  head. 
'  What  clouds  ?  '    said  Mr.  Dick. 

He  looked  so  wistfully  into  my  face,  and  was  so  anxious  to  understand,  that  I 
took  great  pains  to  answer  him  slowly  and  distinctly,  as  I  might  have  entered  on  aa 
explanation  to  a  child. 


MR   DfCK  FULFILS  MY  AUNT'S  PREDICTIONS      425 

'  There  is  some  unfortunate  division  hctweeii  them,'  I  replied.  '  Some  unhappy 
cause  of  separation.  A  seeret.  It  nuiy  he  inseparable  from  the  discrepancy  in  their 
years.     It  may  have  grown  up  out  of  almost  nothing.' 

Mr.  Dick,  who  told  off  every  sentence  with  a  thou(;lilful  nod,  paused  when  I  had 
done,  and  sat  considering,  with  his  eyes  upon  my  face,  and  his  hand  upon  n\y 
knee. 

'  Doctor  not  angry  with  her,  Trotwood  ?  '    he  said,  after  some  time. 

'  No.     Devoted  to  her.' 

'  Then,  I  have  got  it,  boy  1  '    said  Mr.  Dick. 

The  sudden  exultation  with  which  he  slapped  me  on  the  knee,  and  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  with  his  eye-brows  lifted  up  as  high  as  he  could  possibly  lift  them,  made 
me  think  him  farther  out  of  his  wits  than  ever.  lie  Isccame  as  suddenly  grave  again, 
and  leaning  forward  as  before,  said — first  respectfully  taking  out  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  as  if  it  really  did  represent  my  aunt — 

'  Most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world,  Trotwood.  Why  has  she  done  nothing 
to  set  things  right  ?  ' 

'  Too  delicate  and  difficult  a  subject  for  such  interference,'  I  replied. 

'  Fine  scholar,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  touching  me  with  his  finger.  '  Why  has  he  done 
nothing  ?  ' 

'  For  the  same  reason,'  I  returned. 

'  Then,  I  have  got  it,  boy  !  '  said  Mr.  Dick.  And  he  stood  up  before  me,  more 
exultingly  than  before,  nodding  his  head,  and  striking  himself  repeatedly  upon  the 
breast,  until  one  might  have  supposed  that  he  had  nearly  nodded  and  struck  all  the 
breath  out  of  his  body. 

'  A  poor  fellow  with  a  craze,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  '  a  simpleton,  a  weak-minded 
person — present  company,  you  know  ! '  striking  himself  again,  '  may  do  what  wonderful 
people  may  not  do.  I  'II  bring  them  together,  boy.  I  'II  try.  They  'II  not  blame 
me.  They  '11  not  object  to  me.  They  'II  not  mind  what  /  do,  if  it 's  wrong.  I  'm 
only  Mr.  Dick.  And  who  minds  Dick  ?  Dick  's  nobody  !  Whoo  I  '  He  blew  a 
slight,  contemptuous  breath,  as  if  he  blew  himself  away. 

It  was  fortunate  he  had  proceeded  so  far  with  his  mystery,  for  we  heard  the  coach 
stop  at  the  little  garden-gate,  which  brought  my  aunt  and  Dora  home. 

'  Not  a  word,  boy  !  '  he  pursued  in  a  whisper  ;  '  leave  all  the  blame  with  Dick 
— simple  Dick — mad  Dick.  I  have  been  thinking,  sir,  for  some  time,  that  I  was 
getting  it,  and  now  I  have  got  it.  After  what  you  have  said  to  me,  I  am  sure  I  have 
got  it.     All  right  !  ' 

Not  another  word  did  Mr.  Dick  utter  on  the  subject ;  but  he  made  a  very 
telegraph  of  himself  for  the  next  half-hour  (to  the  great  disturbance  of  my  aunt's 
mind),  to  enjoin  inviolable  secrecy  on  me. 

To  my  surprise,  I  heard  no  more  a})out  it  for  some  two  or  three  weeks,  though 
I  was  sufficiently  interested  in  the  result  of  his  endeavours  ;  descrying  a  strange 
gleam  of  good  sense — I  say  nothing  of  good  feeling,  for  that  he  always  exhibited — 
in  the  conclusion  to  which  he  had  come.  At  last  I  began  to  believe,  that,  in  the 
flighty  and  unsettled  state  of  his  mind,  he  had  either  forgotten  his  intention  or 
abandoned  it. 

One  fair  evening,  when  Dora  was  not  inclined  to  go  out,  my  aunt  and  I  strolled 
up  to  the  Doctor's  cottage.  It  was  autumn,  when  there  were  no  debates  to  vex  the 
evening  air  ;    and  I  remember  how  the  leaves  smelt  like  our  garden  at  Blunderstone 

o2 


426  DAVID  COPPEKFIELD 

as  we  trod  them  underfoot,  and  how  the  old,  unhappy  feeling,  seemed  to  go  by,  on  the 
sighing  wind. 

It  was  twilight  when  we  reached  the  cottage.  Mrs.  Strong  was  just  coming 
out  of  the  garden,  where  Mr.  Dick  yet  lingered,  busy  with  his  knife,  helping  the 
gardener  to  point  some  stakes.  The  Doctor  was  engaged  with  some  one  in  his  study  ; 
but  the  visitor  would  be  gone  directly,  Mrs.  Strong  said,  and  begged  us  to  remain  and 
see  him.  We  went  into  the  drawing-room  with  her,  and  sat  down  by  the  darkening 
Avindow.  There  was  never  any  ceremony  about  the  visits  of  such  old  friends  and 
neighbours  as  we  were. 

We  had  not  sat  here  many  minutes,  when  Mrs.  Markleham,  who  usually  contrived 
to  be  in  a  fuss  about  something,  came  bustling  in,  with  her  newspaper  in  her  hand, 
and  said,  out  of  breath,  '  My  goodness  gracious,  Annie,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  there 
was  some  one  in  the  study  !  ' 

'  My  dear  mamma,'  she  quietly  returned,  '  how  could  I  know  that  you  desired 
the  information  ?  ' 

'  Desired  the  information  !  '  said  Mrs.  Markleham,  sinking  on  the  sofa.  '  I 
never  had  such  a  turn  in  all  my  life  !  ' 

'  Have  you  been  to  the  study,  then,  mamma  ?  '   asked  Annie. 

'  Been  to  the  study,  my  dear  !  '  she  returned  emphatically.  '  Indeed  I  have  !  I 
came  upon  the  amiable  creature — if  you  '11  imagine  my  feelings,  Miss  Trotwood  and 
David — in  the  act  of  making  his  will.' 

Her  daughter  looked  round  from  the  window  quickly. 

'  In  the  act,  my  dear  Annie,'  repeated  Mrs.  Markleham,  spreading  the  news- 
paper on  her  lap  like  a  table-cloth,  and  patting  her  hands  upon  it,  '  of  making  his 
last  Will  and  Testament.  The  foresight  and  affection  of  the  dear  !  I  must  tell  you 
how  it  was.  I  really  must,  in  justice  to  the  darling — for  he  is  nothing  less  ! — tell  you 
how  it  was.  Perhaps  you  know,  Miss  Trotwood,  that  there  is  never  a  candle  lighted 
in  this  house,  until  one's  eyes  are  literally  falling  out  of  one's  head  with  being 
stretched  to  read  the  paper.  And  that  there  is  not  a  chair  in  this  house,  in  which  a 
paper  can  be  what  /  call,  read,  except  one  in  the  study.  This  took  me  to  the  study, 
where  I  saw  a  light.  I  opened  the  door.  In  company  with  the  dear  Doctor  were 
two  professional  people,  evidently  connected  with  the  law,  and  they  were  all  three 
standing  at  the  table  :  the  darling  Doctor  pen  in  hand.  "  This  simply  expresses 
then,"  said  the  Doctor — Annie,  my  love,  attend  to  the  very  words — "  this  simply 
expresses  then,  gentlemen,  the  confidence  I  have  in  Mrs.  Strong,  and  gives  her 
all  unconditionally  ?  "  One  of  the  professional  people  replied,  "  And  gives  her  all 
unconditionally."  Upon  that,  with  the  natural  feelings  of  a  mother,  I  said,  "  Good 
God,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  fell  over  the  door-step,  and  came  away  through  the  little 
back-passage  where  the  pantry  is.' 

Mrs.  Strong  opened  the  window,  and  went  out  into  the  verandah,  where  she 
stood  leaning  against  a  pillar. 

'  But  now  isn't  it,  Miss  Trotwood,  isn't  it,  David,  invigorating,'  said  Mrs. 
Markleham,  mechanically  following  her  with  her  eyes,  '  to  find  a  man  at  Doctor 
Strong's  time  of  life,  with  the  strength  of  mind  to  do  this  kind  of  thing  ?  It  only  shows 
how  right  I  was.  I  said  to  Annie,  when  Doctor  Strong  paid  a  very  flattering  visit 
to  myself,  and  made  her  the  subject  of  a  declaration  and  an  offer,  I  said,  "  My  dear, 
there  is  no  doubt  whatever,  in  my  opinion,  with  reference  to  a  suitable  provision  for 
you,  that  Doctor  Strong  will  do  more  than  he  binds  himself  to  do."  ' 


MR.   DKJK    FlLllLS  MY  AUNT'S   PRKDiCTIONS      427 

Here  the  hell  rani,',  and  we  licani  llie  sound  of  tiir  visitors'  feet  as  tliey  went 
out. 

'  It 's  all  over,  no  doubt,'  said  the  Old  Soldii  i-,  aflcr  listening  ;  '  the  dear  ereature 
has  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered,  and  his  mind  's  at  rest.  Well  it  may  he  !  What  a 
mind  !  Annie,  my  love,  I  am  going  to  the  study  with  my  paper,  for  1  am  a  poor 
creature  without  news.     Miss  Trotwood,  David,  pray  eome  and  see  the  Doetor.' 

I  was  conscious  of  Mr.  Dick's  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  room,  shutting  up 
his  knife,  when  he  accompanied  her  to  the  study  ;  and  of  my  aunt's  rubbing  her  nose 
violently,  by  the  way,  as  a  mild  vent  for  her  intolerance  of  our  military  friend  ;  but 
who  got  first  into  the  study,  or  how  Mrs.  Markleham  settled  herself  in  a  moment  in 
her  easy-chair,  or  how  my  aunt  and  I  came  to  be  left  together  near  the  door  (unless 
her  eyes  were  quicker  than  mine,  and  she  held  me  back),  1  have  forgotten  if  I  ever 
knew.  But  this  I  know, — that  we  saw  the  Doctor  before  he  saw  us,  sitting  at  his 
table,  among  the  folio  volumes  in  which  he  delighted,  resting  his  head  calmly  on  his 
hand.  That,  in  the  same  moment,  we  saw  Mrs.  Strong  glide  in,  pale  and  trembling. 
That  Mr.  Dick  supported  her  on  his  arm.  That  he  laid  his  other  hand  upon  the 
Doctor's  arm,  causing  him  to  look  up  with  an  abstracted  air.  That,  as  the  Doctor 
moved  his  head,  his  wife  dropped  down  on  one  knee  at  his  feet,  and,  with  her  hands 
imploringly  lifted,  fixed  upon  his  face  the  memorable  look  I  have  never  forgotten. 
That  at  this  sight  Mrs.  Markleham  dropped  the  newspaper,  and  stared  more  like  a 
figure-head  intended  for  a  ship  to  be  called  The  Astonishment,  than  anything  else  I 
can  think  of. 

The  gentleness  of  the  Doctor's  manner  and  surprise,  the  dignity  that  mingled 
with  the  supplicating  attitude  of  his  wife,  the  amiable  concern  of  Mr.  Dick,  and  the 
earnestness  with  which  my  aunt  said  to  herself,  '  That  man  mad  !  '  (triumphantly 
expressive  of  the  misery  from  which  she  had  saved  him) — I  see  and  hear,  rather  than 
remember,  as  I  write  about  it. 

'  Doctor  !  '   said  Mr.  Dick.     '  What  is  it  that 's  amiss  ?     Look  here  !  ' 

'  Annie  !  '   cried  the  Doctor.     '  Not  at  my  feet,  my  dear  !  ' 

'  Yes  !  '  she  said.  '  I  beg  and  pray  that  no  one  will  leave  the  room  !  Oh,  my 
husband  and  father,  break  this  long  silence.  Let  us  both  know  what  it  is  that  has 
come  between  us  !  ' 

Mrs.  Markleham,  by  this  time  recovering  the  power  of  speech,  and  seeming  to 
swell  with  family  pride  and  motherly  indignation,  here  exclaimed,  "  Annie,  get  up 
immediately,  and  don't  disgrace  everybody  belonging  to  you  by  humbling  yourself 
like  that,  unless  you  wish  to  see  me  go  out  of  my  mind  on  the  spot  !  ' 

'  Mamma  !  '  returned  Annie.  '  Waste  no  words  on  me,  for  my  appeal  is  to  my 
husband,  and  even  you  are  nothing  here.' 

'  Nothing  !  '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Markleham.  '  Me,  nothing  !  The  child  has  taken 
leave  of  her  senses.     Please  to  get  me  a  glass  of  water  !  ' 

I  was  too  attentive  to  the  Doctor  and  his  wife,  to  give  any  heed  to  this  request ; 
and  it  made  no  impression  on  anybody  else  ;  so  Mrs.  Markleham  panted,  stared,  and 
fanned  herself. 

'  Annie  !  '  said  the  Doctor,  tenderly  taking  her  in  his  hands.  '  My  dear  !  If 
any  unavoidable  change  has  eome,  in  the  sequence  of  time,  upon  our  married  life, 
you  are  not  to  blame.  The  fault  is  mine,  and  only  mine.  There  is  no  change  in  my 
affection,  admiration,  and  respect.  I  wish  to  make  you  happy.  I  truly  love  and 
honour  you.     Rise,  Annie,  pray  !  ' 


428  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

But  she  did  not  rise.  After  looking  at  him  for  a  little  while,  she  sank  down 
closer  to  him,  laid  her  arm  across  his  knee,  and  dropping  her  head  upon  it,  said — 

'  If  I  have  any  friend  here,  who  can  speak  one  word  for  me,  or  for  my  husband 
in  this  matter  ;  if  I  have  any  friend  here,  who  can  give  a  voice  to  any  suspicion  that 
my  heart  has  sometimes  whispered  to  me  ;  if  I  have  any  friend  here,  who  honours 
my  husband,  or  has  ever  cared  for  me,  and  has  anything  within  his  knowledge,  no 
matter  what  it  is,  that  may  help  to  mediate  between  us, — I  implore  that  friend  to 
speak  ! ' 

There  was  a  profound  silence.  After  a  few  moments  of  painful  hesitation,  I 
broke  the  silence. 

'  Mrs.  Strong,'  I  said,  '  there  is  something  within  my  knowledge,  which  I  have 
been  earnestly  entreated  by  Doctor  Strong  to  conceal,  and  have  concealed  until 
to-night.  But  I  believe  the  time  has  come  when  it  would  be  mistaken  faith  and 
delicacy  to  conceal  it  any  longer,  and  when  your  appeal  absolves  me  from  this 
injunction.' 

She  turned  her  face  towards  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  knew  that  I  was  right. 
I  could  not  have  resisted  its  entreaty,  if  the  assurance  that  it  gave  me  had  been  less 
convincing. 

'  Our  future  peace,'  she  said,  '  may  be  in  your  hands.  I  trust  it  confidently  to 
your  not  suppressing  anything.  I  know  beforehand  that  nothing  you,  or  any  one, 
can  tell  me,  will  show  my  husband's  noble  heart  in  any  other  light  than  one.  How- 
soever it  may  seem  to  you  to  touch  me,  disregard  that.  I  will  speak  for  myself, 
before  him,  and  before  God  afterwards.' 

Thus  earnestly  besought,  I  made  no  reference  to  the  Doctor  for  his  permission, 
but,  without  any  other  compromise  of  the  truth  than  a  little  softening  of  the  coarse- 
ness of  Uriah  Heep,  related  plainly  what  had  passed  in  that  same  room  that  night. 
The  staring  of  Mrs.  Markleham  diu'ing  the  whole  narration,  and  the  shrill,  sharp 
interjections  with  which  she  occasionally  interrupted  it,  defy  description. 

When  I  had  finished,  Annie  remained,  for  some  few  inoments,  silent,  with  her 
head  bent  down  as  I  have  described.  Then,  she  took  the  Doctor's  hand  (he  was 
sitting  in  the  same  attitude  as  when  we  had  entered  the  room),  and  pressed  it  to  her 
breast,  and  kissed  it.  Mr.  Dick  softly  raised  her  ;  and  she  stood,  when  she  began  to 
speak,  leaning  on  him,  and  looking  down  upon  her  husband — from  whom  she  never 
turned  her  eyes. 

'  All  that  has  ever  been  in  my  mind,  since  I  was  married,'  she  said  in  a  low,  sub- 
missive, tender  tone,  '  I  will  lay  bare  before  you.     I  could  not  live  and  have  one 
reservation,  knowing  what  I  know  now.' 

'  Nay,  Annie,'  said  the  Doctor,  mildly,  '  I  have  never  doubted  you,  my  child. 
There  is  no  need  ;  indeed  there  is  no  need,  my  dear.' 

'  There  is  great  need,'  she  answered,  in  the  same  way,  '  that  I  should  open  my 
whole  heart  before  the  soul  of  generosity  and  truth,  whom,  year  by  year,  and  day 
by  day,  I  have  loved  and  venerated,  more  and  more,  as  Heaven  knows  !  ' 

'  Really,'  interrupted  Mrs.  Markleham,  '  if  I  have  any  discretion  at  all ' 

('  Which  you  haven't,  you  Marplot,'  observed  my  aunt,  in  an  indignant 
whisper.) 

— '  I  must  be  permitted  to  observe  that  it  cannot  be  requisite  to  enter  into  these 
details.' 

'  No  one  but  my  husband  can  judge  of  that,    mamma,'    said  Annie,   without 


MR.  T)TCK  FULFILS  MY  AUNT'S  PRRDIfTTOXS      +29 

removing  her  eyes  from  his  face,  '  and  he  will  hear  me.  If  1  say  anything  to  give 
you  pain,  mamma,  forgive  mo.     I  have  borne  pain  first,  often  uikI  long,  myself.' 

'  Upon  my  word  !  '   gasped  Mrs.  MarkJcliam. 

'  When  I  was  very  young,'  said  Annie,  '  cpiite  a  little  child,  my  first  associations 
with  knowledge  of  any  kind  wore  inseparable  from  a  patient  friend  and  teacher — the 
friend  of  my  dead  father — who  was  always  ticar  to  me.  1  can  remember  nothing 
that  I  know,  without  remembering  him.  He  stored  my  mind  with  its  first  treasures, 
and  stamped  his  character  upon  them  all.  They  never  eoiild  have  been,  I  think,  as 
good  as  they  have  been  to  me,  if  I  had  taken  them  from  any  other  hands.' 

'  Makes  her  mother  nothing  !  '    exclaimed  Mrs.  Marklehani. 

'  Not  so,  mamma,'  said  Amiie  ;  '  but  I  make  him  what  he  was.  I  must  do  that. 
As  I  grew  up,  he  occupied  the  same  place  still.  I  was  proud  of  his  interest  :  deeply, 
fondly,  gratefully  attached  to  him.  I  looked  up  to  him  I  can  hardly  describe  how — 
as  a  father,  as  a  guide,  as  one  whose  praise  was  different  from  all  other  praise,  as  one 
in  whom  I  could  have  trusted  and  confided,  if  I  had  doubted  all  the  world.  You 
know,  mannna,  how  young  and  inexperienced  I  was,  when  you  presented  him  before 
me,  of  a  sudden,  as  a  lover.' 

'  I  have  mentioned  the  fact,  fifty  times  at  least,  to  everybody  here  !  '  said  Mrs. 
Marklehani. 

('  Then  hold  your  tongue,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  and  don't  mention  it  any  more  ! ' 
muttered  my  aunt.) 

'  It  was  so  great  a  change  :  so  great  a  loss,  I  felt  it  at  first,'  said  Annie,  still 
preserving  the  same  look  and  tone,  '  that  I  was  agitated  and  distressed.  I  was  but 
a  girl  ;  and  when  so  great  a  change  came  in  the  character  in  which  I  had  so  long  looked 
up  to  him,  I  think  I  was  sorry.  But  nothing  could  have  made  him  what  he  used  to 
be  again ;  and  I  was  proud  that  he  should  think  me  so  worthy,  and  we  were  married.' 

'  — At  Saint  Alphage,  Canterbury,'  observed  Mrs.  Markleham. 

('  Confound  the  woman  !  '    said  my  aunt,  '  she  won't  be  quiet  !  ') 

'  I  never  thought,'  pi-oceeded  Ainiie,  with  a  heightened  colour,  '  of  any  worldly 
gain  that  my  husband  would  bring  to  me.  My  young  heart  had  no  room  in  its  homage 
for  any  such  poor  reference.  Mamma,  forgive  me  when  I  say  that  it  was  you  who  first 
presented  to  my  mind  the  thought  that  any  one  could  wrong  me,  and  wrong  him, 
by  such  a  cruel  suspicion.' 

'  Me  !  '    cried  Mrs.  Afarkleham. 

('  Ah  !  You,  to  be  sure  !  '  observed  my  aunt,  '  and  you  can't  fan  it  away,  my 
military  friend  !  ') 

'  It  was  the  first  unhappiness  of  my  new  life,'  said  Annie.  '  It  was  the  first 
occasion  of  every  unhappy  moment  I  have  knowai.  Those  moments  have  been  more, 
of  late,  than  I  can  count ;  but  not — my  generous  husband  ! — not  for  the  reason  you 
suppose  ;  for  in  my  heart  there  is  not  a  thought,  a  recollection,  or  a  hope,  that  any 
power  could  separate  from  you  !  ' 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  clasped  her  hands,  and  looked  as  beautiful  and  true, 
I  thought,  as  any  S})irit.  The  Doctor  looked  on  her,  hencefoi'th,  as  steadfastly  as 
she  on  him. 

'  Mamma  is  blameless,'  she  went  on,  "  of  having  ever  urged  you  for  herself,  and 
she  is  blameless  in  intention  every  way,  I  am  sure, — but  when  I  saw  how  many 
importunate  claims  were  pressed  upon  you  in  my  name  ;  how  you  were  traded  on  in 
my  name  ;    how  generous  you  were,  and  how  Mr.  Wickficld,  who  had  your  welfare 


430  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

very  much  at  heart,  resented  it ;  the  first  sense  of  my  exposure  to  the  mean  suspicion 
that  my  tenderness  was  bought — and  sold  to  you,  of  all  men,  on  earth — fell  upon  me, 
like  unmerited  disgrace,  in  which  I  forced  you  to  participate.  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  it  was — mamma  cannot  imagine  what  it  was— to  have  this  dread  and  trouble 
always  on  my  mind,  yet  know  in  my  own  soul  that  on  my  marriage-day  I  crowned 
the  love  and  honour  of  my  life  !  ' 

'  A  specimen  of  the  thanks  one  gets,'  cried  Mrs.  Markleham,  in  tears,  '  for  taking 
care  of  one's  family  !     I  wish  I  was  a  Turk  !  ' 

('  I  wish  you  were,  with  all  my  heart — and  in  your  native  country  !  '  said  my 
aunt.) 

'  It  was  at  that  time  that  mamma  was  most  solicitous  about  my  cousin  Maldon. 
I  had  liked  him  '  :  she  spoke  softly,  but  without  any  hesitation  :  '  very  much.  We 
had  been  little  lovers  once.  If  circumstances  had  not  happened  otherwise,  I  might 
have  come  to  persuade  mj^self  that  I  really  loved  him,  and  might  have  married  him, 
and  been  most  wretched.  There  can  be  no  disparity  in  marriage  like  unsuitability 
of  mind  and  purpose.' 

I  pondered  on  those  words,  even  while  I  was  studiously  attending  to  what  followed, 
as  if  they  had  some  particular  interest,  or  some  strange  application  that  I  could  not 
divine.  '  There  can  be  no  disparity  in  marriage  like  unsuitability  of  mind  and 
purpose  ' — '  no  disparity  in  marriage  like  unsuitability  of  mind  and  purpose.' 

'  There  is  nothing,'  said  Annie,  '  that  we  have  in  common.  I  have  long  found 
that  there  is  nothing.  If  I  were  thankful  to  my  husband  for  no  more,  instead  of  for 
so  much,  I  should  be  thankful  to  him  for  having  saved  me  from  the  first  mistaken 
impulse  of  my  undisciplined  heart.' 

She  stood  quite  still,  before  the  Doctor,  and  spoke  with  an  earnestness  that 
thrilled  me.     Yet  her  voice  Avas  just  as  quiet  as  before. 

'  When  he  was  waiting  to  be  the  object  of  your  munificence,  so  freely  bestowed 
for  my  sake,  and  when  I  was  vmhappy  in  the  mercenary  shape  I  was  made  to  wear, 
I  thought  it  would  have  become  him  better  to  have  worked  his  own  way  on.  I 
thought  that  if  I  had  been  he,  I  would  have  tried  to  do  it,  at  the  cost  of  almost  any 
hardship.  But  I  thought  no  worse  of  him,  until  the  night  of  his  departure  for  India. 
That  night  I  knew  he  had  a  false  and  thankless  heart.  I  saw  a  double  meaning,  then, 
in  Mr.  Wickfield's  scrutiny  of  me.  I  perceived,  for  the  first  time,  the  dark  suspicion 
that  shadowed  my  life.' 

'  Suspicion,  Annie  !  '    said  the  Doctor.     '  No,  no,  no  !  ' 

'  In  your  mind  there  was  none,  I  know,  my  husband  ! '  she  returned.  '  And 
when  I  came  to  you,  that  night,  to  lay  down  all  my  load  of  shame  and  grief,  and  knew 
that  I  had  to  tell,  that,  underneath  your  roof,  one  of  my  own  kindred,  to  whom  j'^ou 
had  been  a  benefactor,  for  the  love  of  me,  had  spoken  to  me  words  that  should  have 
found  no  utterance,  even  if  I  had  been  the  weak  and  mercenary  wretch  he  thought 
me — my  mind  revolted  from  the  taint  the  very  tale  conveyed.  It  died  upon  my 
lips,  and  from  that  hour  till  now  has  never  passed  them.' 

Mrs.  Markleham,  with  a  short  groan,  leaned  back  in  her  easy-chair  ;  and  retired 
behind  her  fan,  as  if  she  were  never  coming  out  any  more. 

'  I  have  never,  but  in  your  presence,  interchanged  a  word  with  him  from  that 
time  ;  then,  only  when  it  has  been  necessary  for  the  avoidance  of  this  explanation. 
Years  have  passed  since  he  knew  from  me,  what  his  situation  here  was.  The  kind- 
nesses you  have  secretly  done  for  his  advancement,  and  then  disclosed  to  me,  for  my 


MR  DTCK  FULFII.S  MY  AUNT'S   l»lii:i)l(  TIONS      431 

surprise  uiul  plousuie,  liave  been,  jou  will  believe,  t»ul  iii^'j^ravutions  of  the  uiiiiappiness 
and  burden  of  my  seeret.' 

She  sunk  down  gently  at  the  Doctor's  feet,  though  lie  did  his  utmost  to  prevent 
her  ;    and  said,  looking  up,  tearfully,  into  his  face — 

'  Do  not  speak  to  me  yet  I  Let  nie  say  a  little  more  !  Right  or  wrong,  if  this 
were  to  be  done  again,  I  think  I  should  do  just  the  same.  You  never  can  know  what 
it  was  to  be  devoted  to  you,  with  those  old  associations  ;  to  find  that  any  one  could 
be  so  hard  as  to  suppose  that  the  truth  of  my  heart  was  bartered  away,  and  to  be 
surrounded  \)y  ajipearances  confirming  that  belief.  I  was  very  young,  and  had  no 
adviser.  Between  mamma  and  me,  in  all  relating  to  you,  there  was  a  wide 
division.  If  I  shrunk  into  myself,  hiding  the  disrespect  I  had  \mdergorie,  it  was 
because  I  honoured  you  so  much,  and  so  much  wished  that  you  should  honour 
mel' 

'  Annie,  my  pure  heart  !  '    said  the  Doctor,  '  my  dear  girl  !  ' 

'  A  little  more  !  a  very  few  words  more  !  I  used  to  think  there  were  so  many 
whom  you  might  have  married,  who  would  not  have  brought  such  charge  and  trouble 
on  you,  and  who  would  have  made  your  home  a  worthier  home.  I  used  to  be  afraid 
that  I  had  better  have  remained  your  pupil,  and  almost  your  child.  I  used  to  fear 
that  I  was  so  unsuited  to  your  learning  and  wisdom.  If  all  this  made  me  shrink 
within  myself  (as  indeed  it  did),  when  I  had  that  to  tell,  it  was  still  because  I  honoured 
you  so  much,  and  hoped  that  you  might  one  day  honour  me.' 

'  That  day  has  shone  this  long  time,  Annie,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  and  can  have  but 
one  long  night,  my  dear.' 

'  Another  word  !  I  afterwards  meant — steadfastly  meant,  and  purposed  to 
myself — to  bear  the  whole  weight  of  knowing  the  unworthiness  of  one  to  whom  you 
had  been  so  good.  And  now  a  last  word,  dearest  and  best  of  friends  !  The  cause  of 
the  late  change  in  you,  which  I  have  seen  with  so  much  pain  and  sorrow,  and  have 
sometimes  referred  to  my  old  apprehension— at  other  times  to  lingering  suppositions 
nearer  to  the  truth — has  been  made  clear  to-night ;  and  by  an  accident  I  have  also 
come  to  know,  to-night,  the  full  measure  of  your  noble  trust  in  me,  even  under  that 
mistake.  I  do  not  hope  that  any  love  and  duty  I  may  render  in  return,  will  ever 
make  me  worthy  of  your  priceless  confidence  ;  but  with  all  this  knowledge  fresh  upon 
me,  I  can  lift  my  eyes  to  this  dear  face,  revered  as  a  father's,  loved  as  a  husband's, 
sacred  to  me  in  my  childhood  as  a  friend's,  and  solemnly  declare  that  in  my  lightest 
thought  I  had  never  wronged  you  ;  never  wavered  in  the  love  and  the  fidelity  I  owe 
you!' 

She  had  her  arms  around  the  Doctor's  neck,  and  he  leant  his  head  down  over  her, 
mingling  his  grey  hair  with  her  dark  brown  tresses. 

'  Oh,  hold  me  to  your  heart,  my  husband  !  Never  cast  me  out  !  Do  not  think 
or  speak  of  disparity  between  us,  for  there  is  none,  except  in  all  my  many  imperfections. 
Every  succeeding  year  I  have  known  this  better,  as  I  have  esteemed  you  more  and 
more.  Oh,  take  me  to  your  heart,  my  husband,  for  my  love  was  founded  on  a  rock, 
and  it  endures  !  ' 

In  the  silence  that  ensued,  my  aunt  walked  gravely  up  to  Mr.  Dick,  without  at 
all  hurrying  herself,  and  gave  him  a  hug  and  a  sounding  kiss.  And  it  was  very 
fortunate,  with  a  view  to  his  credit,  that  she  did  so  ;  for  I  am  confident  that  I  detected 
him  at  that  moment  in  the  act  of  making  preparations  to  stand  on  one  leg,  as  an 
appropriate  expression  of  delight. 


432  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  are  a  very  remarkable  man,  Dick  !  '  said  my  aunt,  with  an  air  of  unqualified 
approbation  ;    '  and  never  pretend  to  be  anything  else,  for  I  know  better  !  ' 

With  that,  my  aunt  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  nodded  to  me  ;  and  we  three 
stole  quietly  out  of  the  room,  and  came  away. 

'  That 's  a  settler  for  our  military  friend,  at  any  rate,'  said  my  aunt,  on  the  way 
home.     '  I  should  sleep  the  better  for  that,  if  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  glad  of  !  ' 

'  She  was  quite  overcome,  I  am  afraid,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  great  commiseration. 

'  What  ?     Did  you  ever  see  a  crocodile  overcome  ?  '   inquired  my  aunt. 

'  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  crocodile,'  returned  Mr.  Dick,  mildly. 

'  There  never  would  have  been  anything  the  matter,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
old  Animal,'  said  my  aunt,  with  strong  emphasis.  '  It 's  very  much  to  be  wished  that 
some  mothers  would  leave  their  daughters  alone  after  marriage,  and  not  be  so  violently 
affectionate.  They  seem  to  think  the  only  return  that  can  be  made  them  for  bringing 
an  unfortunate  young  woman  into  the  world — God  bless  my  soul,  as  if  she  asked  to 
be  brought,  or  wanted  to  come  ! — is  full  liberty  to  worry  her  out  of  it  again.  What 
are  you  thinking  of.  Trot  ?  ' 

I  was  thinking  of  all  that  had  been  said.  My  mind  was  still  running  on  some 
of  the  expressions  used.  '  There  can  be  no  disparity  in  marriage  like  unsuitability 
of  mind  and  purpose.'  '  The  first  mistaken  impulse  of  an  undisciplined  heart.'  '  My 
love  was  founded  on  a  rock.'  But  we  were  at  home  ;  and  the  trodden  leaves  were 
lying  underfoot,  and  the  autumn  wind  was  blowing. 


CHAPTER    XLVI 

INTELLIGENCE 

I  MUST  have  been  married,  if  I  may  trust  to  my  imperfect  memory  for  dates, 
about  a  year  or  so,  when  one  evening,  as  I  was  returning  from  a  solitary  walk, 
thinking  of  the  book  I  was  then  writing — for  my  success  had  steadily  increased 
with  my  steady  application,  and  I  was  engaged  at  that  time  upon  my  first 
work  of  fiction — I  came  past  Mrs.  Steerforth's  house.  I  had  often  passed  it  before, 
during  my  residence  in  that  neighbourhood,  though  never  when  I  could  choose  another 
road.  Howbeit,  it  did  sometimes  happen  that  it  was  not  easy  to  find  another,  without 
making  a  long  circuit ;   and  so  I  had  passed  that  way,  upon  the  whole,  pretty  often. 

I  had  never  done  more  than  glance  at  the  house,  as  I  went  by  with  a  quickened 
step.  It  had  been  uniformly  gloomy  and  dull.  None  of  the  best  rooms  abutted  on 
the  road  ;  and  the  narrow,  heavily-framed  old-fashioned  windows,  never  cheerful 
under  any  circumstances,  looked  very  dismal,  close  shut,  and  with  their  blinds  always 
drawn  down.  There  was  a  covered  way  across  a  little  paved  court,  to  an  entrance 
that  was  never  used  ;  and  there  was  one  round  staircase  window,  at  odds  with  all 
the  rest,  and  the  only  one  unshaded  by  a  blind,  which  had  the  same  unoccupied  blank 
look.  I  do  not  remember  that  I  ever  saw  a  light  in  all  the  house.  If  I  had  been  a 
casual  passer-by,  I  should  have  probably  supposed  that  some  childless  person  lay 
dead  in  it.  If  I  had  happily  possessed  no  knowledge  of  the  place,  and  had  seen  it 
often  in  that  changeless  state,  I  should  have  pleased  my  fancy  with  many  ingenious 
speculations,  I  dare  say. 


INTELLIGENCE  43a 

As  it  was,  I  thoTipht  as  little  of  it  as  I  niiglit.  IJiit  my  mind  could  not  fjo  by  it 
and  leave  it,  as  my  body  did  ;  and  it  usually  awakened  a  loiif^  train  of  meditations. 
Coming  before  me  on  this  paitieular  evening  that  I  mention,  mingled  with  the 
childish  recollections  and  lat<T  fancies,  the  ghosts  of  lialf-fornicd  hoj)es,  the  broken 
shadows  of  disappointments  dimly  seen  and  understood,  the  blending  of  experience 
and  imagination,  incidental  to  the  occupation  with  which  my  thoughts  had  been 
busy,  it  was  more  than  comnioidy  suggestive.  I  fell  into  a  brown  study  as  I  walked 
on,  and  a  voice  at  my  side  made  me  start. 

It  was  a  woman's  voice,  too.  I  was  not  long  in  recollecting  Mrs.  Steerforth's 
little  parlour-maid,  who  had  formerlj'  worn  blue  ribbons  in  her  cap.  .She  had  taken 
them  out  now,  to  adapt  herself,  I  sujjjjose,  to  the  altered  cliaractcr  of  the  house  ; 
and  wore  but  one  or  two  disconsolate  bows  of  sober  brown. 

'  If  you  please,  sir,  would  you  have  the  goodness  to  walk  in.  and  sjicak  to  Miss 
Dartle  V  ' 

'  Has  Miss  Dartle  sent  you  for  me  ?  '    I  incjuired. 

'  Not  to-night,  sir,  but  it 's  just  the  same.  Miss  Dartle  saw  you  pass  a  night  or 
two  ago  ;  and  I  was  to  sit  at  work  on  the  staircase,  and  when  I  saw  you  pass  again, 
to  ask.  you  to  stej)  in  and  speak  to  her.' 

I  turned  back,  and  inquired  of  my  conductor,  as  we  went  along,  how  Mrs. 
Steerforth  was.     She  said  her  lady  was  but  poorly,  and  kept  her  own  room  a  good  deal. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  house,  I  was  directed  to  Miss  Dartle  in  the  garden,  and 
left  to  make  my  presence  known  to  her  myself.  She  was  sitting  on  a  seat  at  one 
end  of  a  kind  of  terrace,  overlooking  the  great  city.  It  was  a  sombre  evening,  with 
a  lurid  light  in  the  sky  ;  and  as  I  saw  the  prospect  scowling  in  the  distance,  with  here 
and  there  some  larger  object  starting  up  into  the  sullen  glare,  I  fancied  it  was  no  inapt 
companion  to  the  memory  of  this  fierce  woman. 

She  saw  me  as  I  advanced,  and  rose  for  a  moment  to  receive  me.  I  thought  her, 
then,  still  more  colourless  and  thin  than  when  I  had  seen  her  last ;  the  flashing  eyes 
still  brighter,  and  the  scar  still  plainer. 

Our  meeting  was  not  cordial.  We  had  parted  angrily  on  the  last  occasion  ;  and 
there  was  an  air  of  disdain  about  her,  which  she  took  no  jiains  to  conceal. 

'  I  am  told  you  wish  to  speak  to  me,  Miss  Dartle  '  ;  said  I,  standing  near  her, 
with  my  hand  upon  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  declining  her  gesture  of  invitation  to 
sit  down. 

'  If  you  please,'  said  she.     '  Pray  has  this  girl  been  found  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  And  yet  she  has  run  away  !  ' 

I  saw  her  thin  lips  working  while  she  looked  at  me,  as  if  they  were  eager  to  load 
her  with  reproaches. 

'  Run  away  ?  '    I  repeated. 

'  Yes  !  From  him,'  she  said,  with  a  laugh.  '  If  she  is  not  found,  perhaps  she 
never  will  be  found.     She  may  be  dead  !  ' 

The  vaunting  cruelty  with  which  she  met  my  glance,  I  never  saw  expressed  in 
any  other  face  that  ever  I  ha^•c  seen. 

'  To  wish  her  dead,'  said  I,  '  may  be  the  kindest  wish  that  one  of  her  own  sex 
could  bestow  upon  her.     I  am  glad  that  time  has  softened  you  so  much,  Miss  Dartle.' 

She  condescended  to  make  no  reply,  but,  turning  on  me  with  another  scornful 
laugh,  said — 


434  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  The  friends  of  this  excellent  and  much-injured  young  lady  are  friends  of  yours. 
You  are  their  champion,  and  assert  their  rights.  Do  you  wish  to  know  what  is  known 
of  her  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  I. 

She  rose  with  an  ill-favoured  smile,  and  taking  a  few  steps  towards  a  wall  of  holly 
that  was  near  at  hand,  dividing  the  lawn  from  a  kitchen-garden,  said,  in  a  louder 
voice,  '  Come  here  !  '   as  if  she  were  calling  to  some  unclean  beast. 

'  You  will  restrain  any  demonstrative  championship  or  vengeance  in  this  place, 
of  course,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?  '  said  she,  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  me  with  the  same 
expression. 

I  inclined  my  head,  without  knowing  what  she  meant ;  and  she  said,  '  Come 
here  !  '  again  ;  and  returned,  followed  by  the  respectable  Mr.  Littimer,  who,  with 
undiminished  respectability,  made  me  a  bow,  and  took  up  his  position  behind  her. 
The  air  of  wicked  grace  :  of  triumph,  in  which,  strange  to  say,  there  was  yet  some- 
thing feminine  and  alluring  :  with  which  she  reclined  upon  the  seat  between  us,  and 
looked  at  me,  was  worthy  of  a  cruel  princess  in  a  legend. 

'  Now,'  said  she,  imperiously,  without  glancing  at  him,  and  touching  the  old 
wound  as  it  throbbed  :  perhaps,  in  this  instance,  with  pleasure  rather  than  pain. 
'  Tell  Mr.  Copperfield  about  the  flight.' 

'  Mr.  James  and  myself,  ma'am ' 

'  Don't  address  yourself  to  me  !  '    she  interrupted  with  a  frown. 

'  Mr.  James  and  myself,  sir ' 

'  Nor  to  me,  if  you  please,'  said  I. 

Mr.  Littimer,  without  being  at  all  discomposed,  signified  by  a  slight  obeisance, 
that  anything  that  was  most  agreeable  to  us  was  most  agreeable  to  him  ;  and  began 
again — 

'  Mr.  James  and  myself  have  been  abroad  with  the  young  woman,  ever  since  she 
left  Yarmouth  under  Mr.  James's  protection.  We  have  been  in  a  variety  of  places, 
and  seen  a  deal  of  foreign  country.  We  have  been  in  France,  Switzerland,  Italy — 
in  fact,  almost  all  parts.' 

He  looked  at  the  back  of  the  seat,  as  if  he  were  addressing  himself  to  that ;  and 
softly  played  upon  it  with  his  hands,  as  if  he  were  striking  chords  upon  a  dumb  piano. 

'  Mr.  James  took  quite  uncommonly  to  the  young  woman  ;  and  was  more  settled, 
for  a  length  of  time,  than  I  have  known  him  to  be  since  I  have  been  in  his  service. 
The  young  woman  was  very  improvable,  and  spoke  the  languages  ;  and  wouldn't 
have  been  known  for  the  same  country-person.  I  noticed  that  she  was  much  admired 
wherever  we  went.' 

Miss  Dartle  put  her  hand  upon  her  side.  I  saw  him  steal  a  glance  at  her,  and 
slightly  smile  to  himself. 

'  Very  much  admired,  indeed,  the  young  woman  was.  What  with  her  dress  ; 
what  with  the  air  and  sun  ;  what  with  being  made  so  much  of  ;  what  with  this,  that, 
and  the  other  ;    her  merits  really  attracted  general  notice.' 

He  made  a  short  pause.  Her  eyes  wandered  restlessly  over  the  distant  prospect, 
and  she  bit  her  nether-lip  to  stop  that  busy  mouth. 

Taking  his  hands  from  the  seat,  and  placing  one  of  them  within  the  other,  as  he 
settled  himself  on  one  leg,  Mr.  Littimer  proceeded,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  and  his 
respectable  head  a  little  advanced,  and  a  little  on  one  side — 

'  The  young  woman  went  on  in  this  manner  for  some  time,  being  occasionally 


intelltgt:nce  485 

low  in  her  spirits,  until  I  thirii<  she  bc^'an  to  weary  Mr.  James  by  plvin/r  way  to  her 
low  spirits  and  tempers  of  that  kind  ;  and  things  were  not  so  comfortable.  Mr. 
James  he  began  to  be  restless  again.  'I'hc  more  restless  he  got,  the  worse  she  got ; 
and  I  must  say,  for  myself,  that  I  had  a  very  difTicult  time  of  it  indeed  between  the 
two.  Still  matters  were  patched  up  here,  and  made  good  there,  over  and  over  again  ; 
and  altogether  lasted,  I  am  sure,  for  a  longer  tinic  than  anybody  could  have  expected.' 
Recalling  her  eyes  from  the  distance,  she  looked  at  me  again  now,  with  her  former 
air.  Mr.  Littimer,  clearing  his  throat  behind  his  hand  with  a  respectable  short  cough, 
changed  legs,  and  went  on — 

'  At  last,  when  there  had  been,  upon  the  whole,  a  good  many  words  and  reproaches, 
Mr.  James  he  set  off  one  morning,  from  the  neighbourhood  of  Naples,  where  we  had  a 
villa  (the  young  woman  being  very  partial  to  the  sea),  and,  under  pretence  of  coming 
back  in  a  day  or  so,  left  it  in  charge  with  me  to  break  it  out,  that,  for  the  general 
happiness  of  all  concerned,  he  was  ' — here  an  interruption  of  the  short  cough — '  gone. 
But  Mr.  James,  I  must  saj',  certainly  did  behave  extremely  honourable  ;  for  he  pro- 
posed that  the  young  woman  should  marry  a  very  respectaljle  person,  who  was  fully 
prepared  to  overlook  the  past,  and  who  was,  at  least,  as  good  as  anybody  the  young 
woman  could  have  aspired  to  in  a  regular  \\s.y  :  her  connections  being  very  common.' 
He  changed  legs  again,  and  wetted  his  lips.  I  was  convinced  that  the  scoundrel 
spoke  of  himself,  and  I  saw  my  conviction  reflected  in  Miss  Dartle's  face. 

'  This  I  also  had  it  in  charge  to  communicate.  I  was  willing  to  do  anything  to 
relieve  Mr.  James  from  his  difTiculty,  and  to  restore  harmony  between  himself  and  an 
affectionate  parent,  who  has  undergone  so  much  on  his  account.  Therefore  I  under- 
took the  commission.  The  young  woman's  violence  when  she  came  to,  after  I  broke 
the  fact  of  his  departure,  was  beyond  all  expectations.  She  was  quite  mad,  and 
had  to  be  held  by  force  ;  or,  if  she  couldn't  have  got  to  a  knife,  or  got  to  the  sea, 
she  'd  have  beaten  her  head  against  the  marble  floor.' 

Miss  Dartle,  leaning  back  upon  the  seat,  with  a  light  of  exultation  in  her  face, 
seemed  almost  to  caress  the  sounds  this  fellow  had  uttered. 

'  But  when  I  came  to  the  second  part  of  what  had  been  entrusted  to  me,'  said 
Mr.  Littimer,  rubbing  his  hands,  uneasily,  '  which  anybodj'  might  have  supposed 
would  have  been,  at  all  events,  appreciated  as  a  kind  intention,  then  the  young  woman 
came  out  in  her  true  colours.  A  more  outrageous  person  I  never  did  see.  Her 
conduct  was  surprisingly  had.  She  had  no  more  gratitude,  no  more  feeling,  no  more 
patience,  no  more  reason  in  her,  than  a  stock  or  a  stone.  If  I  hadnt  been  upon  my 
guard,  I  am  convinced  she  would  have  had  my  blood.' 
'  I  think  the  better  of  her  for  it,'  said  I,  indignantly. 

Mr.  Littimer  bent  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Indeed,  sir  ?  But  you  're 
young  !  '  and  resumed  his  narrative. 

'  It  was  necessary,  in  short,  for  a  time,  to  take  away  everything  nigh  her,  that 
she  could  do  herself,  or  anybody  else,  an  injury  with,  and  to  shut  her  up  close.  \ot 
withstanding  which,  she  got  out  in  the  night  ;  forced  the  lattice  of  a  window,  that  I 
had  nailed  up  myself ;  dropped  on  a  vine  that  was  trailed  below  ;  and  never  has  been 
seen  or  heard  of,  to  my  knowledge,  since.' 

'  She  is  dead,  perhaps,'  said  Miss  Dartle,  with  a  smile,  as  if  she  could  have  spurned 
the  body  of  the  ruined  girl. 

'  She  may  have  drowned  herself,  miss,'  returned  Mr.  Littimer.  catching  at  an 
excuse  for  addressing  himself  to  somebody.     '  It 's  very  possible.     Or,  she  may  have 


436  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

had  assistance  from  the  boatmen,  and  the  boatmen's  wives  and  children.  Being 
given  to  low  company,  she  was  very  much  m  the  habit  of  talking  to  them  on  the  beach, 
Miss  Dartle,  and  sitting  by  their  boats.  I  have  known  her  do  it,  when  Mr.  James 
has  been  away,  whole  days.  Mr.  James  was  far  from  pleased  to  find  out  once,  that 
she  had  told  the  children  she  was  a  boatman's  daughter,  and  that  in  her  own  country, 
long  ago,  she  had  roamed  about  the  beach,  like  them.' 

Oh,  Emily  !  Unhappy  beauty  !  What  a  picture  rose  before  me  of  her  sitting 
on  the  far-off  shore,  among  the  children  like  herself  when  she  was  innocent,  listening 
to  little  voices  such  as  might  have  called  her  Mother  had  she  been  a  poor  man's  wife ; 
and  to  the  great  voice  of  the  sea,  with  its  eternal  '  Never  more  !  ' 

'  When  it  was  clear  that  nothing  could  be  done.  Miss  Dartle ' 

'  Did  I  tell  you  not  to  speak  to  me  ?  '    she  said,  with  stern  contempt. 
'  You  spoke  to  me,  miss,'  he  replied.     '  I  beg  your  pardon.     But  it  is  my  service 
to  obey.' 

'  Do  your  service,'  she  returned.  '  Finish  your  story,  and  go  !  ' 
'  When  it  was  clear,'  he  said,  with  infinite  respectability,  and  an  obedient  bow, 
'  that  she  was  not  to  be  found,  I  went  to  Mr.  James,  at  the  place  where  it  had  been 
agreed  that  I  should  write  to  him,  and  informed  him  of  what  had  occurred.  Words 
passed  between  us  in  consequence,  and  I  felt  it  due  to  my  character  to  leave  him. 
I  could  Ijear,  and  I  have  borne,  a  great  deal  from  Mr.  James  ;  but  he  insulted  me  too 
far.  He  hurt  me.  Knowing  the  unfortunate  difference  between  himself  and  his 
mother,  and  what  her  anxiety  of  mind  was  likely  to  be,  I  took  the  liberty  of  coming 

home  to  England,  and  relating ' 

'  For  money  which  I  paid  him,'  said  Jliss  Dartle  to  me. 

'  Just  so,  ma'am— and  relating  what  I  knew.  I  am  not  aware,'  said  Mr.  Littimer, 
after  a  moment's  reflection,  '  that  there  is  anything  else.  I  am  at  present  out  of 
employment,  and  should  be  happy  to  meet  with  a  respectable  situation.' 

Miss  Dartle  glanced  at  me,  as  though  she  would  inquire  if  there  were  anything 
that  I  desired  to  ask.  As  there  was  something  which  had  occurred  to  my  mind,  I 
said  in  reply — 

'  I  could  wish  to  know  from  this — creature,'  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  utter  any 
more  conciliatory  word,  '  whether  they  intercepted  a  letter  that  was  written  to  her 
from  home,  or  whether  he  supposes  that  she  received  it.' 

He  remained  calm  and  silent,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  the  tip  of 
every  finger  of  his  right  hand  delicately  poised  against  the  tip  of  every  finger  of  his 
left. 

Miss  Dartle  turned  her  head  disdainfully  towards  him. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,'  he  said,  awakening  from  his  abstraction,  '  but,  however 
submissive  to  you,  I  have  my  position,  though  a  servant.  Mr.  Copperfield  and  you, 
miss,  are  different  people.  If  Mr.  Copperfield  wishes  to  know  anything  from  me,  I 
take  the  liberty  of  reminding  Mr.  Copperfield  that  he  can  put  a  question  to  me.  I 
have  a  character  to  maintain.' 

After  a  momentary  struggle  with  mjself,  I  turned  my  eyes  upon  him,  and  said, 
'  You  have  heard  my  question.  Consider  it  addressed  to  yourself,  if  you  choose. 
Wliat  answer  do  you  make  ?  ' 

'  Sir,'  he  rejoined,  with  an  occasional  separation  and  reunion  of  those  delicate 
tips,  '  my  answer  must  be  qualified  ;  because,  to  betray  Mr.  James's  confidence  to 
his  mother,  and  to  betray  it  to  you,  are  two  different  actions.     It  is  not  probable,  I 


inti!:lligi:n(je  437 

consider,  that  Mr.  James  would  eiicoiirai^'c  the  reeeifit  of  letters  likely  to  inerease  low 
spirits  and  iiiij)leasantneHS  ;  l)ut  further  than  that,  sir,  I  sh(juld  wish  to  avoid 
going.' 

'  Is  that  all  ?  '    inquired  Miss  Dartle  of  me. 

I  indicated  that  1  had  nothitif,'  more  to  say.  '  Kxeept,'  I  added,  as  1  saw  him 
moving  off,  '  that  I  understand  this  fellow's  part  in  the  wieked  story,  and  that,  as  I 
shall  make  it  known  to  the  honest  man  who  has  been  her  father  from  her  childhood, 
I  would  recommend  him  to  avoid  going  too  much  into  public.' 

He  had  stopped  the  moment  I  began,  and  had  listened  with  his  usual  rcf)osc  of 
manner. 

'  Thank  you,  sir.  But  you  'II  excuse  me  if  I  say.  sir,  that  there  are  neither  slaves 
nor  slave-drivers  in  this  country,  and  that  people  are  not  allowed  to  take  the  law  into 
their  own  hands.  If  they  do,  it  is  more  to  their  own  peril,  I  believe,  than  to  other 
people's.  Consequently  speaking,  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  going  wherever  I  may 
wish,  sir.' 

With  that,  he  made  a  poHte  bow  ;  and,  with  another  to  Miss  Dartie,  went  away 
through  the  arch  in  the  wall  of  holly  by  which  he  had  come.  Miss  Dartle  and  I 
regarded  each  other  for  a  little  while  in  silence  ;  her  manner  being  exactly  what  it 
was,  when  she  had  produced  the  man. 

'  He  says  besides,'  she  observed,  with  a  slow  curling  of  her  lip,  '  that  his  master, 
as  he  hears,  is  coasting  Spain  ;  and  this  done,  is  away  to  gratify  his  seafaring  tastes 
till  he  is  weary.  But  this  is  of  no  interest  to  you.  Between  these  two  proud  persons, 
mother  and  son,  there  is  a  wider  breach  than  before,  and  little  hope  of  its  healing, 
for  they  are  one  at  heart,  and  time  makes  each  more  obstinate  and  imperious. 
Neither  is  this  of  any  interest  to  j^ou  ;  but  it  introduces  what  I  wish  to  say.  This 
devil  whom  you  make  an  angel  of,  I  mean  this  low  girl  whom  he  picked  out  of  the 
tide-mud,'  with  her  black  eyes  full  upon  me,  and  her  passionate  finger  up,  '  may  be 
alive, — for  I  believe  some  common  things  are  hard  to  die.  If  she  is,  you  will  desire 
to  have  a  pearl  of  such  price  found  and  taken  care  of.  We  desire  that,  too  ;  that  he 
may  not  by  any  chance  be  made  her  prey  again.  So  far,  we  are  united  in  one 
interest ;  and  that  is  why  I,  who  would  do  her  any  mischief  that  so  coarse  a  WTctch 
is  capable  of  feeling,  have  sent  for  you  to  hear  what  you  have  heard.' 

I  saw,  by  the  change  in  her  face,  that  .some  one  was  advancing  behind  me.  It 
was  Mrs.  Steerforth,  who  gave  me  her  hand  more  coldly  than  of  yore,  and  with  an 
augmentation  of  her  former  stateliness  of  manner  ;  but  still,  I  perceived — and  I  was 
touched  by  it — with  an  ineffaceable  remembrance  of  my  old  love  for  her  son.  She 
was  greatly  altered.  Her  fine  figure  was  far  less  upright,  her  handsome  face  was 
deeply  marked,  and  her  hair  was  almost  white.  But  when  she  sat  down  on  the  seat, 
she  was  a  handsome  lady  .still ;  and  well  I  knew  the  bright  eye  with  its  lofty  look, 
that  had  been  a  light  in  my  very  dreams  at  school. 

'  Is  Mr.  Copperfield  informed  of  everything,  Rosa  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  And  has  he  heard  Littimer  himself  ?  ' 

'  Yes  ;    I  have  told  him  why  you  wished  it.' 

'  You  are  a  good  girl.  I  have  had  some  slight  correspondence  with  your  former 
friend,  sir,'  addressing  me,  '  but  it  has  not  restored  his  sense  of  duty  or  natural 
obligation.  Therefore  I  have  no  other  object  in  this,  than  what  Rosa  has  mentioned. 
If,  by  the  course  which  may  relieve  the  mind  of  the  decent  man  you  brought  here 


438  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

(for  whom  I  am  sorry — I  can  say  no  more),  my  son  may  be  saved  from  again  falling 
into  the  snares  of  a  designing  enemy,  well !  ' 

She  drew  herself  up,  and  sat  looking  straight  before  her,  far  away. 

'  Madam,'  I  said  respectfully,  '  I  understand.  I  assure  you  I  am  in  no  danger 
of  putting  any  strained  construction  on  your  motives.  But  I  must  say,  even  to  you, 
having  known  this  injured  family  from  childhood,  that  if  you  suppose  the  girl,  so 
deeply  wronged,  has  not  been  cruelly  deluded,  and  would  not  rather  die  a  hundred 
deaths  than  take  a  cup  of  water  from  yoiu:  son's  hand  now,  you  cherish  a  terrible 
mistake.' 

'  Well,  Rosa,  well  !  '  said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  as  the  other  was  about  to  interpose, 
'  it  is  no  matter.     Let  it  be.     You  are  married,  sir,  I  am  told  ?  ' 

I  answered  that  I  had  been  some  time  married. 

'  And  are  doing  well  ?  I  hear  little  in  the  quiet  life  I  lead,  but  I  understand 
you  are  beginning  to  be  famous.' 

'  I  have  been  very  fortunate,'  I  said,  '  and  find  my  name  connected  with  some 
praise.' 

'  You  have  no  mother  ?  ' — in  a  softened  voice. 

'No.' 

'  It  is  a  pity,'  she  returned.     '  She  would  have  been  proud  of  you.     Good-night !  ' 

I  took  the  hand  she  held  out  with  a  dignified,  unbending  air,  and  it  was  as  calm 
in  mine  as  if  her  breast  had  been  at  peace.  Her  pride  could  still  its  very  pulses,  it 
appeared,  and  draw  the  placid  veil  before  her  face,  through  which  she  sat  looking 
straight  before  her  on  the  far  distance. 

As  I  moved  away  from  them  along  the  terrace,  I  could  not  help  observing  how 
steadily  they  both  sat  gazing  on  the  prospect,  and  how  it  thickened  and  closed  around 
them.  Here  and  there,  some  early  lamps  were  seen  to  twinkle  in  the  distant  city  ; 
and  in  the  eastern  quarter  of  the  sky  the  lurid  light  still  hovered.  But,  from  the 
greater  part  of  the  broad  valley  interposed,  a  mist  was  rising  like  a  sea,  which, 
mingling  with  the  darkness,  made  it  seem  as  if  the  gathering  waters  would  encompass 
them.  I  have  reason  to  remember  this,  and  think  of  it  with  awe  ;  for  before  I  looked 
upon  those  two  again,  a  stormy  sea  had  risen  to  their  feet. 

Reflecting  on  what  had  been  thus  told  me,  I  felt  it  right  that  it  should  be  com- 
municated to  Mr.  Peggotty.  On  the  following  evening  I  went  into  London  in  quest 
of  him.  He  was  always  wandering  about  from  place  to  place,  with  his  one  object  of 
recovering  his  niece  before  him ;  but  was  more  in  London  than  elsewhere.  Often 
and  often,  now,  had  I  seen  him  in  the  dead  of  night  passing  along  the  streets,  searching, 
among  the  few  who  loitered  out  of  doors  at  those  untimely  hours,  for  what  he  dreaded 
to  find. 

He  kept  a  lodging  over  the  little  chandler's  shop  in  Hungerford  Market,  which  I 
have  had  occasion  to  mention  more  than  once,  and  from  which  he  first  went  forth 
upon  his  errand  of  mercy.  Hither  I  directed  my  walk.  On  making  inquiry  for  him, 
I  learned  from  the  people  of  the  house  that  he  had  not  gone  out  yet,  and  I  should 
find  him  in  his  room  upstairs. 

He  was  sitting  reading  by  a  window  in  which  he  kept  a  few  plants.  The  room 
was  very  neat  and  orderly.  I  saw  in  a  moment  that  it  was  always  kept  prepared  for 
her  reception,  and  that  he  never  went  out  but  he  thought  it  possible  he  might  bring 
her  home.  He  had  not  heard  my  tap  at  the  door,  and  only  raised  his  eyes  when  I 
laid  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 


fnti<:lli(;ence  439 

'  Mas'r  Davy  !  Thank'ce,  sir  !  thuiik'ec  hearty,  for  this  visit  !  Sit  ye  down. 
You  're  kindly  welcome,  sir  !  ' 

'  Mr.  Peggotty,'  said  I,  taking  the  ehair  he  handed  ine,  '  don't  expect  much  ! 
I  have  heard  some  news.' 

'  Of  Em'ly  !  ' 

He  put  his  hand,  in  a  nervous  manner,  on  his  mouth,  and  turned  pale,  as  he  fixed 
his  eyes  on  mine. 

'  It  gives  no  clue  to  where  she  is  ;    hut  she  is  not  with  him.' 

He  sat  down,  looking  intently  at  me,  .and  listened  in  profound  silence  to  all  I 
had  to  tell.  I  well  remember  the  sense  of  dignity,  beauty  even,  with  which  the  patient 
gravity  of  his  face  impressed  me,  when,  having  gradually  removed  his  eyes  from 
mine,  he  sat  looking  downward,  leaning  his  fcjrohcad  on  his  hand,  lie  offered  no 
interruption,  but  remained  throughout  perfectly  still.  He  seemed  to  pursue  her 
figure  through  the  narrative,  and  to  let  every  other  shape  go  by  him,  as  if  it  were 
nothing. 

When  I  had  done,  he  shaded  his  face,  and  continued  silent.  I  looked  out  of  the 
window  for  a  little  while,  and  occupied  myself  with  the  plants. 

'  How  do  you  fare  to  feel  about  it,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  '   he  inquired  at  length. 

'  I  think  that  she  is  living,'  I  replied. 

'  I  doen't  know.     Maybe  the  first  shock  was  too  rough,  and  in  the  wildness  of 

her  art '     That  there  blue  water  as  she  used  to  speak  on.     Could  she  have  thowt 

o'  that  so  many  year,  because  it  was  to  be  her  grave  ?  ' 

He  said  this,  musing,  in  a  low,  frightened  voice  ;  and  walked  across  the  little 
room. 

'  And  yet,'  he  added,  '  Mas'r  Davy,  I  have  felt  so  sure  as  she  was  living — I  have 
know'd,  awake  and  sleeping,  as  it  was  so  trew  that  I  should  find  her — I  have  been  so 
led  on  by  it,  and  held  up  by  it — that  I  doen't  believe  I  can  have  been  deceived.  No  I 
Em'ly  's  alive  !  ' 

He  put  his  hand  down  firmly  on  the  table,  and  set  his  sunburnt  face  into  a 
resolute  expression. 

'  My  niece,  Em'ly,  is  alive,  sir  1  '  he  said,  steadfastly.  '  I  doen't  know  whecr  it 
comes  from,  or  how  'tis,  but  I  am  told  as  she  's  alive  ! ' 

He  looked  almost  like  a  man  inspired,  as  he  said  it.  I  waited  for  a  few  moments, 
until  he  could  give  me  his  undivided  attention  ;  and  then  proceeded  to  explain  the 
precaution,  that,  it  had  occurred  to  me  last  night,  it  would  be  wise  to  take. 

'  Now,  my  dear  friend         '  I  began. 

'  Thank'ee,  thank'ee,  kind  sir,'  he  said,  grasping  my  hand  in  both  of  his. 

'  If  she  should  make  her  way  to  London,  which  is  likely — for  where  could  she  lose 
herself  so  readily  as  in  this  vast  city  ;   and  what  would  she  wish  to  do,  but  lose  and 

hide  herself,  if  she  does  not  go  home  ? ' 

'  And  she  won't  go  home,'  he  interposed,  shaking  his  head  mournfully.  '  It  she 
had  left  of  her  own  accord,  she  might  ;   not  as  'twas,  sir.' 

'  If  she  should  come  here,'  said  I,  '  I  believe  there  is  one  person,  here,  more  likely 
to  discover  her  than  any  other  in  the  world.     Do  you  remember — hear  what  I  say, 
with  fortitude — think  of  your  great  object ! — do  you  remember  Martha  ?  ' 
'  Of  our  town  ?  ' 

I  needed  no  other  answer  than  his  face. 
'  Do  you  know  that  she  is  in  London  ?  ' 


440  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  I  have  seen  her  in  the  streets,'  he  answered  with  a  shiver. 

'  But  you  don't  know,'  said  I,  '  that  Emily  was  charitable  to  her,  with  Ham's 
help,  long  before  she  fled  from  home.  Nor,  that,  when  we  met  one  night,  and  spoke 
together  in  the  room  yonder,  over  the  way,  she  listened  at  the  door.' 

'  Mas'r  Davy  !  '   he  replied  in  astonishment.     '  That  night  when  it  snew  so  hard  ?  ' 

'  That  night.  I  have  never  seen  her  since.  I  went  back,  after  parting  from 
you,  to  speak  to  her,  but  she  was  gone.  I  was  unwilling  to  mention  her  to  you  then, 
and  I  am  now  ;  but  she  is  the  person  of  whom  I  speak,  and  with  whom  I  think  we 
should  communicate.     Do  you  understand  ?  ' 

'  Too  well,  sir,'  he  replied.  We  had  sunk  our  voices,  almost  to  a  whisper,  and 
continued  to  speak  in  that  tone. 

'  You  say  you  have  seen  her.  Do  you  think  that  you  could  find  her  ?  I  could 
only  hope  to  do  so  by  chance.' 

'  I  think,  Mas'r  Davy,  I  know  wheer  to  look.' 

'  It  is  dark.     Being  together,  shall  we  go  out  now,  and  try  to  find  her  to-night  ?  ' 

He  assented,  and  prepared  to  accompany  me.  Without  appearing  to  observe 
what  he  was  doing,  I  saw  how  carefully  he  adjusted  the  little  room,  put  a  candle  ready 
and  the  means  of  lighting  it,  arranged  the  bed,  and  finally  took  out  of  a  drawer  one 
of  her  dresses  (I  remember  to  have  seen  her  wear  it),  neatly  folded  with  some  other 
garments,  and  a  bonnet,  which  he  placed  upon  a  chair.  He  made  no  allusion  to  these 
clothes,  neither  did  I.  There  they  had  been  waiting  for  her,  many  and  many  a  night, 
no  doubt. 

'  The  time  was,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  said,  as  we  came  downstairs,  '  when  I  thowt  this 
girl,  Martha,  a'most  like  the  dirt  underneath  my  Em'ly's  feet.  God  forgive  me,  there  's 
a  difference  now  !  ' 

As  we  went  along,  partly  to  hold  him  in  conversation,  and  partly  to  satisfy  myself, 
I  asked  him  about  Ham.  He  said,  almost  in  the  same  words  as  formerly,  that  Ham 
was  just  the  same,  '  wearing  away  his  life  with  kiender  no  care  nohow  for  't ;  but 
never  murmuring,  and  liked  by  all.' 

I  asked  him  what  he  thought  Ham's  state  of  mind  was,  in  reference  to  the  cause 
of  their  misfortunes  ?  Whether  he  believed  it  was  dangerous  ?  What  he  supposed, 
for  example.  Ham  would  do,  if  he  and  Steerforth  ever  should  encounter  ? 

'  I  doen't  know,  sir,'  he  replied.  '  I  have  thowt  of  it  oftentimes,  but  I  can't 
arrize  myself  of  it,  no  matters.' 

I  recalled  to  his  remembrance  the  morning  after  her  departure,  when  we  were 
all  three  on  the  beach.  '  Do  you  recollect,'  said  I,  '  a  certain  wild  way  in  which  he 
looked  out  to  sea,  and  spoke  about  "  the  end  of  it  "  ?  ' 

'  Sure  I  do  !  '    said  he. 

'  What  do  you  suppose  he  meant  ?  ' 

'  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  replied,  '  I  've  put  the  question  to  myself  a  mort  o'  times,  and 
never  found  no  answer.  And  theer  's  one  curous  thing — that,  though  he  is  so  pleasant, 
I  wouldn't  fare  to  feel  comfortable  to  try  and  get  his  mind  upon  't.  He  never  said 
a  wured  to  me  as  warn't  as  dootiful  as  dootiful  could  be,  and  it  ain't  likely  as  he  'd 
begin  to  speak  any  other  ways  now  ;  but  it 's  fur  from  being  fleet  water  in  his  mind, 
where  them  thowts  lay.     It  's  deep,  sir,  and  I  can't  see  down.' 

'  You  are  right,'  said  I,  '  and  that  has  sometimes  made  me  anxious.' 

'  And  me  too,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  rejoined.  '  Even  more  so,  I  do  assure  you,  than 
his  ventersome  ways,  though  both  belongs  to  the  alteration  in  him.     I  doen't  know 


MAiailA  441 

as  he  'd  do  violence  under  any  circunislances,  hut  I  hope  as  them  two  may  be  kep 
asundcrs.' 

We  had  come,  through  Temple  Bar,  into  the  City.  Conversing  no  more  now, 
and  waliting  at  my  side,  he  yielded  himself  up  to  the  one  aim  of  his  devoted  life,  and 
went  on,  with  that  hushed  concentration  of  his  faculties  wliich  would  have  made  his 
figure  solitary  in  a  multitude.  We  were  not  far  from  Blackfriars  liridge,  when  he 
turned  his  head  and  pointed  to  a  solitary  female  figure  flitting  along  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street.     I  knew  it,  readily,  to  be  the  figure  that  we  sought. 

We  crossed  the  road,  and  were  pressing  on  towards  her,  when  it  occurred  to  me 
that  she  might  be  more  disposed  to  feel  a  woman's  interest  in  the  lost  girl,  if  we  spoke 
to  her  in  a  (juieter  place,  aloof  from  the  crowd,  and  where  we  should  be  less  observed. 
I  advised  my  companion,  therefore,  that  we  should  not  address  her  yet,  but  follow 
her  ;  consulting  in  this,  likewise,  an  indistinct  desire  I  had,  to  know  where  she  went. 

He  acquiescing,  we  followed  at  a  distance  :  never  losing  sight  of  her,  but  never 
earing  to  come  very  near,  as  she  frequently  looked  about.  Once  she  stopped  t(j  listen 
to  a  band  of  music  ;    and  then  we  stopped  too. 

She  went  on  a  long  way.  Still  we  went  on.  It  was  evident,  from  the  manner 
in  which  she  held  her  course,  that  she  was  going  to  some  fixed  destination  ;  and  this, 
and  her  keeping  in  the  busy  streets,  and  I  suppose  the  strange  fascination  in  the 
secrecy  and  mystery  of  so  following  any  one,  made  me  adhere  to  my  first  purpose. 
At  length  she  turned  into  a  dull,  dark  street,  where  the  noise  and  crowd  were  lost  : 
and  I  said,  '  We  may  speak  to  her  now  '  ;  and,  mending  our  pace,  we  went 
after  her. 


CHAPTER    XLVII 

MARTHA 

WE  were  now  down  in  Westminster.  We  had  turned  back  to  follow  her, 
having  encountered  her  coming  towards  us  ;  and  Westminster  Abbey 
was  the  point  at  which  she  passed  from  the  lights  and  noise  of  the 
leading  streets.  She  proceeded  so  quickly,  when  she  got  free  of  the 
two  currents  of  passengers  setting  towards  and  from  the  bridge,  that,  between  this 
and  the  advance  she  had  of  us  when  she  struck  off,  we  were  in  the  narrow  water-side 
street  by  Millbank  before  we  came  up  with  her.  At  that  moment  she  crossed  the  road, 
as  if  to  avoid  the  footsteps  that  she  heard  so  close  behind  ;  and,  without  looking 
back,  passed  on  even  more  rapidly. 

A  glimpse  of  the  river  through  a  dull  gateway  where  some  waggons  were  housed 
for  the  night,  seemed  to  arrest  my  feet.  I  touched  my  companion  mthout  speaking, 
and  we  both  forbore  to  cross  after  her,  and  both  followed  on  that  opposite  side  of 
the  way  ;  keeping  as  quietly  as  we  could  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses,  but  keeping 
very  near  her. 

There  was,  and  is  when  I  write,  at  the  end  of  that  low-lying  street,  a  dilapidated 
httle  wooden  building,  probably  an  obsolete  old  ferrj'-house.  Its  position  is  just  at 
that  point  where  the  street  ceases,  and  the  road  begins  to  lie  between  a  row  of  houses 
and  the  river.     As  soon  as  she  came  here,  and  saw  the  water,  she  stopped  as  if  she  had 


442  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

come  to  her  destination  ;    and  presently  went  slowly  along  by  the  brink  of  the  river, 
looking  intently  at  it. 

All  the  way  here,  I  had  supposed  that  she  was  going  to  some  house  ;  indeed,  I 
had  vaguely  entertained  the  hope  that  the  house  might  be  in  some  way  associated  with 
the  lost  girl.  But,  that  one  dark  glimpse  of  the  river,  through  the  gateway,  had 
instinctively  prepared  me  for  her  going  no  farther. 

The  neighbourhood  was  a  dreary  one  at  that  time  ;  as  oppressive,  sad,  and 
solitary  by  night,  as  any  about  London.  There  were  neither  wharves  nor  houses  on 
the  melancholy  waste  of  road  near  the  great  blank  prison.  A  sluggish  ditch 
deposited  its  mud  at  the  prison  walls.  Coarse  grass  and  rank  weeds  straggled  over 
all  the  marshy  land  in  the  vicinity.  In  one  part,  carcases  of  houses,  inauspiciously 
begun  and  never  finished,  rotted  away.  In  another,  the  ground  was  cumbered  with 
riisty  iron  monsters  of  steam-boilers,  wheels,  cranks,  pipes,  furnaces,  paddles,  anchors, 
diving-bells,  windmill-sails,  and  I  know  not  what  strange  objects,  accumulated  by  some 
speculator,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust,  underneath  which — having  sunk  into  the  soil 
of  their  own  weight  in  wet  weather — they  had  the  appearance  of  vainly  trying  to  hide 
themselves.  The  clash  and  glare  of  sundry  fiery  Works  upon  the  river-side,  arose 
by  night  to  disturb  everything  except  the  heavy  and  unbroken  smoke  that  poured  out 
of  their  chimneys.  Slimy  gaps  and  causeways,  winding  among  old  wooden  piles, 
with  a  sickly  substance  clinging  to  the  latter,  like  green  hair,  and  the  rags  of  last 
year's  handbills  offering  rewards  for  drowned  men  fluttering  above  high-water-mark, 
led  down  through  the  ooze  and  slush  to  the  ebb-tide.  There  was  a  story  that  one  of 
the  pits  dug  for  the  dead  in  the  time  of  the  Great  Plague  was  hereabout ;  and  a 
blighting  influence  seemed  to  have  proceeded  from  it  over  the  whole  place.  Or  else 
it  looked  as  if  it  had  gradually  decomposed  into  that  nightmare  condition,  out  of  the 
overflowings  of  the  polluted  stream. 

As  if  she  were  a  part  of  the  refuse  it  had  cast  out,  and  left  to  corruption  and 
decay,  the  girl  we  had  followed  strayed  down  to  the  river's  brink,  and  stood  in  the 
midst  of  this  night-picture,  lonely  and  still,  looking  at  the  water. 

There  were  some  boats  and  barges  astrand  in  the  mud,  and  these  enabled  us  to 
come  within  a  few  yards  of  her  without  being  seen.  I  then  signed  to  Mr.  Peggotty 
to  remain  where  he  was,  and  emerged  from  their  shade  to  speak  to  her.  I  did  not 
approach  her  solitary  figure  without  trembling  ;  for  this  gloomy  end  to  her  determined 
walk,  and  the  way  in  which  she  stood,  almost  within  the  cavernous  shadow  of  the 
iron  bridge,  looking  at  the  lights  crookedly  reflected  in  the  strong  tide,  inspired  a 
dread  within  me. 

I  think  she  was  talking  to  herself.  I  am  sure,  although  absorbed  in  gazing  at 
the  water,  that  her  shawl  was  off  her  shoulders,  and  that  she  was  muffling  her  hands 
in  it,  in  an  unsettled  and  bewildered  way,  more  like  the  action  of  a  sleep-walker  than 
a  waking  person.  I  know,  and  never  can  forget,  that  there  was  that  in  her  wild  manner 
which  gave  me  no  assurance  but  that  she  would  sink  before  my  eyes,  until  I  had  her 
arm  within  my  grasp. 

At  the  same  moment  I  said  '  Martha  !  ' 

She  uttered  a  terrified  scream,  and  struggled  with  me  with  such  strength  that  I 
doubt  if  I  could  have  held  her  alone.  But  a  stronger  hand  than  mine  was  laid  upon 
her  ;  and  when  she  raised  her  frightened  eyes  and  saw  whose  it  was,  she  made  but  one 
more  effort  and  dropped  down  between  us.  We  carried  her  away  from  the  water  to 
where  there  were  some  dry  stones,  and  there  laid  her  down,  crying  and  moaning.     In  a 


MAKTHA  443 

little  while  she  sat  among  the  stones,  holding  her  wretched  head  with   both   her 
hands. 

'  Oh,  the  river  !  '    she  cried  passionately.     '  Oh,  the  river  !  ' 
'  Hush,  hush  !  '    said  I.     '  Calm  yourself.' 

But  she  still  repeated  the  same  words,  continually  exclaiming,  '  Oh,  the  river  !  ' 
over  and  over  again. 

'  I  know  it 's  like  me  !  '  she  exclaimed.  '  I  know  that  I  belong  to  it.  I  know 
that  it 's  the  natural  company  of  such  as  I  am  !  It  comes  from  country  places,  where 
there  was  once  no  harm  in  it — and  it  creeps  through  the  dismal  streets,  defiled  and 
miserable — and  it  goes  away,  like  my  life,  to  a  great  sea,  that  is  always  troubled — 
and  I  feel  that  I  must  go  with  it  !  ' 

I  have  never  known  what  despair  was,  except  in  the  tone  of  those  words. 

'  I  can't  keep  away  from  it.  I  can't  forget  it.  It  haunts  me  day  and  night. 
It 's  the  only  thing  in  all  the  world  that  I  am  fit  for,  or  that 's  fit  for  me.  Oh,  the 
dreadful  river  !  ' 

The  thought  passed  through  my  mind  that  in  the  face  of  my  companion,  as  he 
looked  upon  her  without  speech  or  motion,  I  might  have  read  his  niece's  history,  if 
I  had  known  nothing  of  it.  I  never  saw,  in  any  painting  or  reality,  horror  and  com- 
passion so  impressively  blended.  He  shook  as  if  he  would  have  fallen  ;  and  his  hand 
— I  touched  it  with  my  own,  for  his  appearance  alarmed  me — was  deadly  cold. 

'  She  is  in  a  state  of  frenzy,'  I  whispered  to  him.  '  She  will  speak  differently  in 
a  little  time.' 

I  don't  know  what  he  would  have  said  in  answer.  He  made  some  motion  with 
his  mouth,  and  seemed  to  think  he  had  spoken  ;  but  he  had  only  pointed  to  her  with 
his  outstretched  hand. 

A  new  burst  of  crying  came  upon  her  now,  in  which  she  once  more  hid  her  face 
among  the  stones,  and  lay  before  us,  a  prostrate  image  of  humiliation  and  ruin. 
Knowing  that  this  state  must  pass,  before  we  could  speak  to  her  with  any  hope,  I 
ventured  to  restrain  him  when  he  would  have  raised  her,  and  we  stood  by  in  silence 
until  she  became  more  tranquil. 

'  Martha,'  said  I  then,  leaning  down,  and  helping  her  to  rise — she  seemed  to  want 
to  rise  as  if  with  the  intention  of  going  away,  but  she  was  weak,  and  leaned  against  a 
boat.     '  Do  you  know  who  this  is,  who  is  with  me  ?  ' 

She  said  faintly,  '  Yes.' 

'  Do  you  know  that  we  have  followed  you  a  long  way  to-night  ?  ' 

She  shook  her  head.  She  looked  neither  at  him  nor  at  me,  but  stood  in  a 
humble  attitude,  holding  her  bonnet  and  shawl  in  one  hand,  without  appearing 
conscious  of  them,  and  pressing  the  other,  clenched,  against  her  forehead. 

'  Are  you  composed  enough,'  said  I,  '  to  speak  on  the  subject  which  so  interested 
you — I  hope  Heaven  may  remember  it  ! — that  snowy  night  ?  ' 

Her  sobs  broke  out  afresh,  and  she  murmured  some  inarticulate  thanks  to  me 
for  not  having  driven  her  away  from  the  door. 

'  I  want  to  say  nothing  for  myself,'  she  said,  after  a  few  moments.  '  I  am  bad, 
I  am  lost.  I  have  no  hope  at  all.  But  tell  him,  sir,'  she  had  shrunk  away  from  him, 
'  if  you  don't  feel  too  hard  to  me  to  do  it,  that  I  never  was  in  any  way  the  cause  of  his 
misfortune.' 

'  It  has  never  been  attributed  to  you,'  I  returned,  earnestly  responding  to  her 
earnestness. 


444  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  It  was  you,  if  I  don't  deceive  myself,'  she  said,  in  a  broken  voice,  '  that  came 
into  the  kitchen,  the  night  she  took  such  ^iity  on  me  ;  was  so  gentle  to  me  ;  didn't 
shrink  away  from  me  Hke  all  the  rest,  and  gave  me  such  kind  help  !     Was  it  you,  sir  ?  ' 

'  It  was,'  said  I. 

'  I  should  have  been  in  the  river  long  ago,'  she  said,  glancing  at  it  with  a  terrible 
expression,  '  if  any  wrong  to  her  had  been  upon  my  mind.  I  never  could  have  kept 
out  of  it  a  single  winter's  night,  if  I  had  not  been  free  of  any  share  in  that  !  ' 

'  The  cause  of  her  flight  is  too  well  understood,'  I  said.  '  You  are  innocent  of  any 
part  in  it,  we  thoroughly  believe, — we  know.' 

'  Oh  I  might  have  been  much  the  better  for  her,  if  I  had  had  a  better  heart  !  ' 
exclaimed  the  girl,  with  most  forlorn  regret ;  '  for  she  was  always  good  to  me  !  She 
never  spoke  a  word  to  me  but  what  was  pleasant  and  right.  Is  it  likely  I  would  try 
to  make  her  what  I  am  myself,  knowing  what  I  am  myself  so  well  ?  When  I  lost 
everything  that  makes  life  dear,  the  worst  of  all  my  thoughts  was  that  I  was  parted 
for  ever  from  her  !  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty,  standing  with  one  hand  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  and  his  eyes 
cast  down,  put  his  disengaged  hand  before  his  face. 

'  And  when  I  heard  what  had  happened  before  that  snowy  night,  from  some 
belonging  to  our  town,'  cried  Martha,  '  the  bitterest  thought  in  all  my  mind  was, 
that  the  people  would  remember  she  once  kept  company  with  me,  and  would  say  I 
had  corrupted  her  !  When,  Heaven  knows,  I  would  have  died  to  have  brought  back 
her  good  name  !  ' 

Long  unused  to  any  self-control,  the  piercing  agony  of  her  remorse  and  grief 
was  terrible. 

'  To  have  died,  would  not  have  been  much — what  can  I  say  ? — I  would  have 
lived  !  '  she  cried.  '  I  would  have  lived  to  be  old,  in  the  wretched  streets — and  to 
wander  about,  avoided,  in  the  dark — and  to  see  the  day  break  on  the  ghastly  line  of 
houses,  and  remember  how  the  same  sun  used  to  shine  into  my  room,  and  wake  me 
once — I  would  have  done  even  that  to  save  her  !  ' 

Sinking  on  the  stones,  she  took  some  in  each  hand,  and  clenched  them  up,  as  if 
she  would  have  ground  them.  She  writhed  into  some  new  posture  constantly  : 
stiffening  her  arms,  twisting  them  before  her  face,  as  though  to  shut  out  from  her 
eyes  the  little  light  there  was,  and  drooping  her  head,  as  if  it  were  heavy  \vith 
insupportable  recollections. 

'  What  shall  I  ever  do  !  '  she  said,  fighting  thus  with  her  despair.  '  How  can  I 
go  on  as  I  am,  a  solitary  curse  to  myself,  a  living  disgrace  to  every  one  I  come  near  !  ' 
Suddenly  she  turned  to  my  companion.  '  Stamp  upon  me,  kill  me  !  When  she  was 
your  pride,  you  would  have  thought  I  had  done  her  harm  if  I  had  brushed  against 
her  in  the  street.  You  can't  believe — why  should  you  ? — a  syllable  that  comes  out 
of  my  lips.  It  would  be  a  burning  shame  upon  you,  even  now,  if  she  and  I  exchanged 
a  word.  I  don't  complain.  I  don't  say  she  and  I  are  alike.  I  know  there  is  a  long, 
long  way  between  us.  I  only  say,  with  all  my  guilt  and  \vretchedness  upon  my  head, 
that  I  am  grateful  to  her  from  my  soul,  and  love  her.  Oh  don't  think  that  all  the 
power  I  had  of  loving  anything,  is  quite  worn  out  !  Throw  me  away,  as  all  the  world 
does.  Kill  me  for  being  what  I  am,  and  having  ever  known  her  ;  but  don't  think 
that  of  me  !  ' 

He  looked  upon  her,  while  she  made  this  supplication,  in  a  wild  distracted  manner  ; 
and,  when  she  was  silent,  gently  raised  her. 


MARTHA  445 

'  Martliu,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  God  forlud  as  I  shovild  judf;e  you.  ForMd  us  I, 
of  all  men,  .should  do  thai,  my  girl  !  You  docn't  know  half  the  change  that  's  come, 
in  course  of  time,  upon  me,  when  you  think  it  likely.  Well  !  '  he  paused  a  moment, 
then  went  on.  '  You  doen't  understand  how  'tis  that  this  here  gentleman  and  me 
has  wished  to  speak  to  you.  You  doen't  understand  what  'tis  we  has  afore  us. 
Listen  now  !  ' 

His  influence  upon  her  was  complete.  .She  stood,  shrinkingly,  before  him,  as  if 
she  were  afraid  to  meet  his  eyes  ;  but  her  passionate  sorrow  was  (luite  hushed  and 
mute. 

'  If  you  hecrd,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  owt  of  what  passed  between  Mas'r  Davy 
and  me,  th'  night  when  it  sncw  so  hard,  you  know  as  I  have  been — whecr  not — fur  to 
seek  my  dear  niece.  My  dear  niece,'  he  repeated  steadily.  '  Fur  she  's  more  dear  to 
me  now,  Martha,  than  ever  she  was  dear  afore.' 

She  put  her  hands  before  her  face  ;    but  otherwise  remained  quiet. 

'  I  have  heerd  her  tell,'  said  Mr.  Peggottj',  '  as  you  was  early  left  fatherless  and 
motherless,  with  no  friend  fur  to  take,  in  a  rough  seafaring  way,  their  place.  Maybe 
you  can  guess  that  if  you  'd  had  such  a  friend,  you  'd  have  got  into  a  way  of  being 
fond  of  him  in  course  of  time,  and  that  my  niece  was  kiender  daughter-like  to 
me.' 

As  she  was  silently  trembling,  he  put  her  shawl  carefully  about  her,  taking  it  up 
from  the  groimd  for  that  purpose. 

'  Whereby,'  said  he,  '  I  know,  both  as  she  would  go  to  the  wureld's  furdest  end 
with  me,  if  she  could  once  see  me  again  ;  and  that  she  would  fly  to  the  wureld's  furdest 
end  to  keep  off  seeing  me.  For  though  she  ain't  no  call  to  doubt  my  lovo.  and  doen't 
— and  doen't,'  he  repeated,  with  a  quiet  assurance  of  the  truth  of  what  he  said,  '  there  's 
shame  steps  in,  and  keeps  betwixt  us.' 

I  read,  in  every  word  of  his  plain  impressive  way  of  delivering  himself,  new 
evidence  of  his  having  thought  of  this  one  topic,  in  every  feature  it  presented. 

'  According  to  our  reckoning,'  he  proceeded,  '  Mas'r  Davy's  here,  and  mine,  she 
is  like,  one  day,  to  make  her  own  poor  sohtary  course  to  London.  We  believe — - 
Mas'r  Davy,  me,  and  all  of  us — that  you  are  as  innocent  of  everything  that  has  befel 
her,  as  the  unborn  child.  You  've  spoke  of  her  being  pleasant,  kind,  and  gentle  to 
you.  Bless  her,  I  knew  she  was  !  I  knew  she  always  v/as,  to  all.  Y'ou  're  thankful 
to  her,  and  you  love  her.  Help  us  all  you  can  to  find  her,  and  may  Heaven  reward 
you  !  ' 

She  looked  at  him  hastily,  and  for  the  first  time,  as  if  she  were  doubtful  of  what 
he  had  said. 

'  Will  you  trust  me  ?  '   she  asked,  in  a  low  voice  of  astonishment. 

'  Full  and  free  !  '    said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  To  speak  to  her,  if  I  should  ever  find  her  ;  shelter  her,  if  I  have  any  shelter  to 
divide  with  her  ;  and  then,  without  her  knowledge,  come  to  j'ou,  and  bring  you  to 
her  ?  '    she  asked  hurriedly. 

We  both  replied  together,  '  Yes  !  ' 

She  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  solemnly  declared  that  she  would  devote  herself  to 
this  task,  fervently  and  faithfully.  That  she  would  never  waver  in  it,  never  be 
diverted  from  it,  never  relinquish  it  while  there  was  any  chance  of  hope.  If  she 
were  not  true  to  it,  might  the  object  she  now  had  in  life,  which  bound  her  to  something 
devoid  of  evil,  in  its  passing  away  from  her,  leave  her  more  forlorn  and  more  despairing, 


446  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

if  that  were  possible,  than  she  had  been  upon  the  river's  brink  that  night ;  and  then 
might  all  help,  human  and  Divine,  renounce  her  evermore  ! 

She  did  not  raise  her  voice  above  her  breath,  or  address  us,  but  said  this  to  the 
night  sky  ;   then  stood  profoundly  quiet,  looking  at  the  gloomy  water. 

We  judged  it  expedient,  now,  to  tell  her  all  we  knew  ;  which  I  recounted  at 
length.  She  listened  with  great  attention,  and  with  a  face  that  often  changed,  but 
had  the  same  purpose  in  all  its  varying  expressions.  Her  eyes  occasionally  filled  with 
tears,  but  those  she  repressed.  It  seemed  as  if  her  spirit  were  quite  altered,  and  she 
could  not  be  too  quiet. 

She  asked  when  all  was  told,  where  we  were  to  be  communicated  with,  if  occasion 
should  arise.  Under  a  dull  lamp  in  the  road,  I  wrote  our  two  addresses  on  a  leaf  of 
my  pocket-book,  which  I  tore  out  and  gave  to  her,  and  which  she  put  in  her  poor 
bosom.  I  asked  her  where  she  lived  herself.  She  said,  after  a  pause,  in  no  place 
long.     It  were  better  not  to  know. 

Mr.  Peggotty  suggesting  to  me,  in  a  whisper,  what  had  already  occurred  to 
myself,  I  took  out  my  purse  ;  but  I  could  not  prevail  upon  her  to  accept  any  money, 
nor  could  I  exact  any  promise  from  her  that  she  would  do  so  at  another  time.  I 
represented  to  her  that  Mr.  Peggotty  could  not  be  called,  for  one  in  his  condition, 
poor  ;  and  that  the  idea  of  her  engaging  in  this  search,  while  depending  on  her 
own  resources,  shocked  us  both.  She  continued  steadfast.  In  this  particular,  his 
influence  upon  her  was  equally  powerless  with  mine.  She  gratefully  thanked  him, 
but  remained  inexorable. 

'  There  may  be  work  to  be  got,'  she  said.     '  I  '11  try.' 

'  At  least  take  some  assistance,'  I  returned,  '  until  you  have  tried.' 

'  I  could  not  do  what  I  have  promised,  for  money,'  she  replied.  '  I  could  not 
take  it,  if  I  was  starving.  To  give  me  money  would  be  to  take  away  your  trust,  to 
take  away  the  object  that  you  have  given  me.  to  take  away  the  only  certain  thing 
that  saves  me  from  the  river.' 

'  In  the  name  of  the  great  Judge,'  said  I,  '  before  whom  you  and  all  of  us  must 
stand  at  His  dread  time,  dismiss  that  terrible  idea  !     We  can  all  do  some  good,  if  we 

She  trembled,  and  her  lip  shook,  and  her  face  was  paler,  as  she  answered — 

'  It  has  been  put  into  your  hearts,  perhaps,  to  save  a  wretched  creature  for 
repentance.  I  am  afraid  to  think  so  ;  it  seems  too  bold.  If  any  good  should  come 
of  me,  I  might  begin  to  hope  ;  for  nothing  but  harm  has  ever  come  of  my  deeds  yet. 
I  am  to  be  trusted,  for  the  first  time  in  a  long  while,  with  my  miserable  life,  on  accoimt 
of  what  you  have  given  me  to  try  for.     I  know  no  more,  and  I  can  say  no  more.' 

Again  she  repressed  the  tears  that  had  begun  to  flow  ;  and,  putting  out  her 
trembling  hand,  and  touching  Mr.  Peggotty,  as  if  there  was  some  healing  virtue  in  him, 
went  away  along  the  desolate  road.  She  had  been  ill,  probably  for  a  long  time.  I 
observed,  upon  that  closer  opportunity  of  observation,  that  she  was  worn  and  haggard, 
and  that  her  svmken  eyes  expressed  privation  and  endurance. 

We  followed  her  at  a  short  distance,  our  way  lying  in  the  same  direction,  until 
we  came  back  into  the  lighted  and  populous  streets.  I  had  such  implicit  confidence 
in  her  declaration,  that  I  then  put  it  to  Mr.  Peggotty,  whether  it  would  not  seem, 
in  the  onset,  like  distrusting  her,  to  follow  her  any  farther.  He  being  of  the  same 
mind,  and  equally  reliant  on  her,  we  suffered  her  to  take  her  own  road,  and  took 
ours,  which  was  towards  Highgate.     He  accompanied  me  a  good  part  of  the  way  ; 


MARTHA  447 

and  when  we  parted,  with  a  prayer  for  tJie  success  of  this  fresh  effort,  there  was  a  new 
and  thoughtful  compassion  in  him  that  I  was  at  no  i(jss  to  interpret. 

It  was  midnight  when  I  arrived  at  home.  I  had  reaciied  my  own  gate,  and  was 
standing  hstening  for  the  deep  bell  of  Saint  Paul's,  the  sound  of  which  I  thought  had 
been  home  towards  nie  among  the  multitude  of  striking  clocks,  when  I  was  rather 
surprised  to  see  that  the  door  of  my  aunt's  cottage  was  open,  and  that  a  faint  liglit 
in  the  entry  was  shining  out  across  the  road. 

Thinking  that  my  aunt  might  have  relapsed  into  one  of  her  old  alarms,  and 
might  be  watching  the  progress  of  some  imaginary  conflagration  in  the  distance,  I 
went  to  speak  to  her.  It  was  with  very  great  surprise  that  I  saw  a  man  standing  in 
her  little  garden. 

He  had  a  glass  and  bottle  in  his  hand,  and  was  in  the  act  of  drinking.  1  stopped 
short,  among  the  thick  foliage  outside,  for  the  moon  was  up  now,  though  obscured  ; 
and  I  recognised  the  man  whom  I  had  once  supposed  to  be  a  delusion  of  Mr.  Dick's, 
and  had  once  encountered  with  my  aunt  in  the  streets  of  the  City. 

He  was  eating  as  well  as  drinking,  and  seemed  to  eat  with  a  hungry  appetite. 
He  seemed  curious  regarding  the  cottage,  too,  as  if  it  were  the  first  time  he  had  seen 
it.  After  stooping  to  put  the  bottle  on  the  ground,  he  looked  up  at  the  windows. 
and  looked  about ;  though  with  a  covert  and  impatient  air,  as  if  he  was  anxious  to 
be  gone. 

The  light  in  the  passage  was  obscured  for  a  moment,  and  my  aunt  came  out. 
She  was  agitated,  and  told  some  money  into  his  hand.     I  heard  it  chink. 
'  What 's  the  use  of  this  ?  '   he  demanded. 
'  I  can  spare  no  more,'  returned  my  aunt. 
'  Then  I  can't  go,'  said  he.     '  Here  !     You  may  take  it  back  !  ' 
'  You  bad  man,'   returned  my  aunt,  with  great  emotion  ;    '  how  can   you  use 
me  so  ?     But  why   do  I   ask  ?     It   is  because  you   know  how  weak   I   am  !     What 
have  I  to  do,  to  free  myself  for  ever  of  your  visits,  but   to  abandon  you  to  your 
deserts  ?  ' 

'  And  why  don't  you  abandon  me  to  my  deserts  ?  '   said  he. 
'  You  ask  me  why  !  '   returned  my  aunt.     '  What  a  heart  you  must  have  !  ' 
He  stood  moodily  rattling  the  money,  and  shaking  his  head,  until  at  length  he 
said — 

'  Is  this  all  you  mean  to  give  me,  then  ?  ' 

'  It  is  all  I  can  give  you,'  said  my  aunt.  '  You  know  I  have  had  losses,  and 
am  poorer  than  I  used  to  be.  I  have  told  you  so.  Having  got  it,  why  do  you  give 
me  the  pain  of  looking  at  you  for  another  moment,  and  seeing  what  you  have 
become  ?  ' 

I  have  become  shabby  enough,  if  you  mean  that,'  he  said.  '  I  lead  the  life  of 
an  owl.' 

'  You  stripped  me  of  the  greater  part  of  all  I  ever  had,'  said  my  aunt.  '  You 
closed  my  heart  against  the  whole  world,  years  and  years.  You  treated  me  falsely, 
ungratefully,  and  cruelly.  Go,  and  repent  of  it.  Don't  add  new  injuries  to  the  long, 
long  list  of  injuries  you  have  done  me  !  ' 

'  Aye  !  '  he  returned.  '  It 's  all  very  fine  ! — Well  !  I  must  do  the  best  I  can, 
for  the  present,  I  suppose.' 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  appeared  abashed  by  my  aunt's  indignant  tears,  and  came 
slouching  out  of  the  garden.     Taking  two  or  three  quick  steps,  as  if  I  had  just  come 


448  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

up,  I  met  him  at  the  gate,  and  went  in  as  he  came  out.  We  eyed  one  another  narrowly 
in  passing,  and  with  no  favour. 

'  Aunt,'  said  I,  hurriedly.  '  This  man  alarming  you  again  !  Let  me  speak  to 
him.     Who  is  he  ?  ' 

'  Child,'  returned  my  aunt,  taking  my  arm,  '  come  in,  and  don't  speak  to  me  for 
ten  minutes.' 

We  sat  down  in  her  little  parlour.  My  aunt  retired  behind  the  round  green  fan 
of  former  days,  which  was  screwed  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  occasionally  wiped 
her  eyes,  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  she  came  out,  and  took  a  seat  beside 
me. 

'  Trot,'  said  my  aunt,  calmly,  '  it 's  my  husljand.' 

'  Your  husband,  aunt  ?     I  thought  he  had  been  dead  !  ' 

'  Dead  to  me,'  returned  my  aunt,  '  but  living.' 

I  sat  in  silent  amazement. 

'  Betsej^  Trotwood  don't  look  a  likely  suliject  for  the  tender  passion,'  said  my 
aunt,  composedly,  '  but  the  time  was,  Trot,  when  she  believed  in  that  man  most 
entirely.  When  she  loved  him.  Trot,  right  well.  When  there  was  no  proof  of  attach- 
ment and  affection  that  she  would  not  have  given  him.  He  repaid  her  by  breaking 
her  fortune,  and  nearly  breaking  her  heart.  So  she  put  all  that  sort  of  sentiment, 
once  and  for  ever,  in  a  grave,  and  filled  it  up,  and  flattened  it  down.' 

'  My  dear  good  aunt  !  ' 

'  I  left  him,'  my  aunt  proceeded,  laying  her  hand  as  usual  on  the  back  of  mine, 
'  generously.  I  may  say  at  this  distance  of  time,  Trot,  that  I  left  him  generously. 
He  had  been  so  cruel  to  me,  that  I  might  have  effected  a  separation  on  easy  terms 
for  myself  ;  but  I  did  not.  He  soon  made  ducks  and  drakes  of  what  I  gave  him, 
sank  lower  and  lower,  married  another  woman,  I  believe,  became  an  adventurer,  a 
gambler,  and  a  cheat.  What  he  is  now,  you  see.  But  he  was  a  fine- looking  man 
when  I  married  him,'  said  my  aunt,  with  an  echo  of  her  old  pride  and  admiration 
in  her  tone  ;   '  and  I  believed  him — I  was  a  fool  ! — to  be  the  soul  of  honour  !  ' 

She  gave  my  hand  a  squeeze,  and  shook  her  head. 

'  He  is  nothing  to  me  now.  Trot,  less  than  nothing.  But,  sooner  than  have  him 
punished  for  his  offences  (as  he  would  be  if  he  prowled  about  in  this  country),  I  give 
him  more  money  than  I  can  afford,  at  intervals  when  he  reappears,  to  go  away.  I 
was  a  fool  when  I  married  him  ;  and  I  am  so  far  an  incurable  fool  on  that  subject, 
that,  for  the  sake  of  what  I  once  believed  him  to  be,  I  wouldn't  have  even  this  shadow 
of  my  idle  fancy  hardly  dealt  with.  For  I  was  in  earnest,  Trot,  if  ever  a  woman  was.' 
My  aunt  dismissed  the  matter  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and  smoothed  her  dress. 

'  There,  my  dear  !  '  she  said.  '  Now,  you  know  the  beginning,  middle,  and  end, 
and  all  about  it.  We  won't  mention  the  subject  to  one  another  any  more  ;  neither, 
of  course,  will  you  mention  it  to  anybody  else.  This  is  my  grumpy,  frumpy  story, 
and  we  '11  keep  it  to  ourselves.  Trot  !  ' 


AGNES 

(Page  331) 


CHAPTER    XLViri 

DOAIKSTIC 

ILABOUKP^D  hard  at  my  book,  without  allowing  it  to  interfere  with  the 
punctual  discharge  of  my  newspaper  duties  ;  and  it  came  out  and  was  very 
successful.  I  was  not  stunned  by  the  praise  which  sounded  in  my  ears, 
notwithstanding  that  I  was  keenly  alive  to  it,  and  thought  better  of  my  own 
performance,  I  have  little  doubt,  than  anybody  else  did.  It  has  always  been  in  my 
observation  of  human  nature,  that  a  man  who  has  any  good  reason  to  believe  in  himself 
never  flourishes  himself  before  the  faces  of  other  people  in  order  that  they  may  believe 
in  him.  For  this  reason,  I  retained  my  modesty  in  very  self-respect ;  and  the  more 
praise  I  got,  the  more  I  tried  to  deserve. 

It  is  not  my  purpose,  in  this  record,  though  in  all  other  essentials  it  is  my  written 
memory,  to  pursue  the  history  of  my  own  fictions.  They  express  themselves,  and 
I  leave  them  to  themselves.  When  I  refer  to  them,  incidentally,  it  is  only  as  a  part 
of  my  progress. 

Having  some  foundation  for  believing,  by  this  time,  that  nature  and  accident 
had  made  me  an  author,  I  pursued  my  vocation  with  confidence.  Without  such 
assurance  I  should  certainly  have  left  it  alone,  and  bestowed  my  energy  on  some 
other  endeavour.  I  should  have  tried  to  find  out  what  nature  and  accident  really 
had  made  me,  and  to  be  that,  and  nothing  else. 

I  had  been  writing,  in  the  newspaper  and  elsewhere,  so  prosperously,  that  when 
my  new  success  was  achieved,  I  considered  myself  reasonably  entitled  to  escape  from 
the  dreary  debates.  One  joyful  night,  therefore,  I  noted  down  the  music  of  the 
parliamentary  bagpijjcs  for  the  last  time,  and  I  have  never  heard  it  since  ;  though 
I  still  recognise  the  old  drone  in  the  newspapers,  without  any  substantial  variation 
(except,  perhaps,  that  there  is  more  of  it)  all  the  livelong  session. 

I  now  write  of  the  time  when  I  had  been  married,  I  suppose,  about  a  year 
and  a  half.  After  several  varieties  of  experiment,  we  had  given  up  the  house- 
keeping as  a  bad  job.  The  house  kept  itself,  and  we  kept  a  page.  The  principal 
function  of  this  retainer  was  to  quarrel  with  the  cook  ;  in  which  respect  he  was  a 
perfect  Whittington,  without  his  cat,  or  the  remotest  chance  of  being  made  Lord 
Mayor. 

He  appears  to  me  to  have  lived  in  a  hail  of  saucepan-lids.  His  whole  existence 
was  a  scuffle.  He  would  shriek  for  help  on  the  most  improper  occasions, — as  when 
we  had  a  little  dinner-party,  or  a  few  friends  in  the  evening, — and  would  come  tumbling 
out  of  the  kitchen,  with  iron  missiles  flying  after  him.  We  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him, 
but  he  was  very  much  attached  to  us,  and  wouldn't  go.  He  was  a  tearful  boy,  and 
broke  into  such  deplorable  lamentations,  when  a  cessation  of  our  connection  was 
hinted  at,  that  we  were  obliged  to  keep  him.  He  had  no  mother — no  anything  in 
the  way  of  a  relative,  that  I  could  discover,  except  a  sister,  who  fled  to  America  the 
moment  we  had  taken  him  off  her  hands  ;  and  he  became  quartered  on  us  like  a 
horrible  young  changeling.  He  had  a  lively  perception  of  his  own  unfortunate  state, 
and  was  always  rubbing  his  eyes  with  the  sleeve  of  his  jacket,  or  stooping  to  blow  his 

p 


450  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

nose  on  the  extreme  corner  of  a  little  pocket-handkerchief,  which  he  never  would 
take  completely  out  of  his  pocket,  but  always  economised  and  secreted. 

This  unlucky  page,  engaged  in  an  evil  hour,  at  six  pounds  ten  per  annum,  was  a 
source  of  continual  trouble  to  me.  I  watched  him  as  he  grew — and  he  grew  like 
scarlet  beans — with  painful  apprehensions  of  the  time  when  he  would  begin  to  shave  ; 
even  of  the  days  when  he  would  be  bald  or  grey.  I  saw  no  prospect  of  ever  getting 
rid  of  him ;  and,  projecting  myself  into  the  future,  used  to  think  what  an  inconvenience 
he  would  be  when  he  was  an  old  man. 

I  never  expected  anything  less,  than  this  unfortunate's  manner  of  getting  me  out 
of  my  difficulty.  He  stole  Dora's  watch,  which,  like  everything  else  belonging  to  us, 
had  no  particular  place  of  its  own  ;  and,  converting  it  into  money,  spent  the  produce 
(he  was  always  a  weak-minded  boy)  in  incessantly  riding  up  and  down  between 
London  and  Uxbridge  outside  the  coach.  He  was  taken  to  Bow  Street,  as  well  as  I 
remember,  on  the  completion  of  his  fifteenth  journey  ;  when  four-and-sixpence,  and 
a  second-hand  fife  which  he  couldn't  play,  were  found  upon  his  person. 

The  surprise  and  its  consequences  would  have  been  much  less  disagreeable  to  me 
if  he  had  not  been  penitent.  But  he  was  very  penitent  indeed,  and  in  a  peculiar  way 
— not  in  the  lump,  but  by  instalments.  For  example  :  the  day  after  that  on  which 
I  was  obliged  to  appear  against  him,  he  made  certain  revelations  touching  a  hamper 
in  the  cellar,  which  we  believed  to  be  full  of  wine,  but  which  had  nothing  in  it  except 
bottles  and  corks.  We  supposed  he  had  now  eased  his  mind,  and  told  the  worst  he 
knew  of  the  cook  ;  but,  a  day  or  two  afterwards,  his  conscience  sustained  a  new 
twinge,  and  he  disclosed  how  she  had  a  little  girl,  who,  early  every  morning,  took  away 
our  bread  ;  and  also  how  he  himself  had  been  suborned  to  maintain  the  milkman  in 
coals.  In  two  or  three  days  more,  I  was  informed  by  the  authorities  of  his  having 
led  to  the  discovery  of  sirloins  of  beef  among  the  kitchen-stuff,  and  sheets  in  the  rag- 
bag. A  little  while  afterwards,  he  broke  out  in  an  entirely  new  direction,  and  confessed 
to  a  knowledge  of  burglarious  intentions  as  to  our  premises,  on  the  part  of  the  pot- 
boy, who  was  immediately  taken  up.  I  got  to  be  so  ashamed  of  being  such  a  victim, 
that  I  would  have  given  him  any  money  to  hold  his  tongue,  or  would  have  offered 
a  round  bribe  for  his  being  permitted  to  run  away.  It  was  an  aggravating  circum- 
stance in  the  case  that  he  had  no  idea  of  this,  but  conceived  that  he  was  making  me 
amends  in  every  new  discovery  :   not  to  say,  heaping  obligations  on  my  head. 

At  last  I  ran  away  myself,  whenever  I  saw  an  emissary  of  the  police  approaching 
with  some  new  intelligence  ;  and  lived  a  stealthy  life  until  he  was  tried  and  ordered  to 
be  transported.  Even  then  he  couldn't  be  quiet,  but  was  always  writing  us  letters  ; 
and  wanted  so  much  to  see  Dora  before  he  went  away,  that  Dora  went  to  visit  him, 
and  fainted  when  she  found  herself  inside  the  iron  bars.  In  short,  I  had  no  peace  of 
my  life  until  he  was  expatriated,  and  made  (as  I  afterwards  heard)  a  shepherd  of, 
'  up  the  country  '  somewhere  ;    I  have  no  geographical  idea  where. 

All  this  led  me  into  some  serious  reflections,  and  presented  our  mistakes  in  a  new 
aspect ;  as  I  could  not  help  communicating  to  Dora  one  evening,  in  spite  of  my 
tenderness  for  her. 

'  My  love,'  said  I,  '  it  is  very  painful  to  me  to  think  that  our  want  of  system  and 
management,  involves  not  only  ourselves  (which  we  have  got  used  to),  but  other 
people.' 

'  You  have  been  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  now  you  are  going  to  be  cross  !  '  said 
Dora. 


DOMESTIC  451 

'  No,  my  dear,  indeed  !     Let  me  expliiin  to  you  what  I  mean.' 

'  I  think  I  don't  want  to  know,'  said  J)()ra. 

'  But  I  want  you  to  know,  my  love.     Put  Jip  down.' 

Dora  put  his  nose  to  mine,  and  said  '  lioh  !  '  to  drive  my  seriousness  away  ; 
but,  not  succeeding,  ordered  him  into  his  pagoda,  and  sat  looking  at  me,  with  her 
hands  folded,  and  a  most  resigned  little  expression  of  countenance. 

'  The  fact  is,  my  dear,'  I  began,  '  there  is  contagion  in  us.  We  infect  every  one 
about  us.' 

I  might  have  gone  on  in  this  figurative  manner,  if  Dora's  face  had  not  admonished 
me  that  she  was  wondering  with  all  her  might  whether  I  was  going  to  propose  any 
new  kind  of  vaccination,  or  other  medical  remedy,  for  this  unwholesome  state  of  ours. 
Therefore  I  checked  myself,  and  made  my  meaning  plainer. 

'  It  is  not  merely,  my  pet,'  said  I,  '  that  we  lose  money  and  comfort,  and  even 
temper  sometimes,  by  not  learning  to  be  more  careful  ;  but  that  we  incur  the  serious 
responsibility  of  spoiling  every  one  who  comes  into  our  service,  or  has  any  dealings 
with  us.  I  begin  to  be  afraid  that  the  fault  is  not  entirely  on  one  side,  but  that  these 
people  all  turn  out  ill  because  we  don't  turn  out  very  well  ourselves.' 

'  Oh,  what  an  accusation,'  exclaimed  Dora,  opening  her  eyes  wide  ;  '  to  say  that 
you  ever  saw  me  take  gold  watches  !     Oh  !  ' 

'  My  dearest,'  I  remonstrated,  '  don't  talk  preposterous  nonsense  !  Who  has 
made  the  least  allusion  to  gold  watches  ?  ' 

'  You  did,'  returned  Dora.  '  You  know  you  did.  You  said  I  hadn't  turned 
out  well,  and  compared  me  to  him.' 

'  To  whom  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  To  the  page,'  sobbed  Dora.  '  Oh,  you  cruel  fellow,  to  compare  your  affectionate 
■wife  to  a  transported  page  !  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  your  opinion  of  me  before  we 
were  married  ?  ^Vhy  didn't  you  say,  you  hard-hearted  thing,  that  you  were  con- 
vinced I  was  worse  than  a  transported  page  '!  Oh,  what  a  dreadful  opinion  to  have 
of  me  !     Oh,  my  goodness  !  ' 

'  Now,  Dora,  my  love,'  I  returned,  gently  trying  to  remove  the  handkerchief  she 
pressed  to  her  eyes,  '  this  is  not  only  very  ridiculous  of  you,  but  very  wrong.  In  the 
first  place,  it 's  not  true.' 

'  You  always  said  he  was  a  story-teller,'  sobbed  Dora.  '  And  now  you  say  the 
same  of  me  !     Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?     What  shall  I  do  ?  ' 

'  My  darling  girl,'  I  retorted,  '  I  really  must  entreat  you  to  be  reasonable,  and 
listen  to  what  I  did  say,  and  do  say.  My  dear  Dora,  unless  we  learn  to  do  our  duty 
to  those  whom  we  employ,  they  will  never  learn  to  do  their  duty  to  us.  I  am  afraid 
we  present  opportunities  to  people  to  do  wrong,  that  never  ought  to  be  presented. 
Even  if  we  were  as  lax  as  we  are,  in  all  our  arrangements,  by  choice — which  we  are 
not — even  if  we  liked  it,  and  found  it  agreeable  to  be  so — which  we  don't — I  am 
persuaded  we  should  have  no  right  to  go  on  in  this  way.  AVe  are  positively  corrupting 
people.  We  are  bound  to  think  of  that.  I  can't  help  thinking  of  it,  Dora.  It  is  a 
reflection  I  am  unable  to  dismiss,  and  it  sometimes  makes  me  very  uneasy.  There, 
dear,  that 's  all.     Come  now.     Don't  be  foolish  !  ' 

-  Dora  would  not  allow  me,  for  a  long  time,  to  remove  the  handkerchief.  She 
sat  sobbing  and  murmuring  behind  it,  that,  if  I  was  uneasy,  why  had  I  ever  been 
married  ?  Why  hadn't  I  said,  even  the  day  before  we  went  to  church,  that  I  knew 
I  should  be  uneasy,  and  I  would  rather  not  ?     If  I  couldn't  bear  her,  why  didn't  I 


452  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

send  her  away  to  her  aunts  at  Putney,  or  to  Julia  Mills  in  India  ?  Julia  would  be 
glad  to  see  her,  and  would  not  call  her  a  transported  page  ;  Julia  never  had  called 
her  anything  of  the  sort.  In  short,  Dora  was  so  afflicted,  and  so  afflicted  me  by  being 
in  that  condition,  that  I  felt  it  was  of  no  use  repeating  this  kind  of  effort,  though 
never  so  mildly,  and  I  must  take  some  other  course. 

What  other  course  was  left  to  take  ?  To  '  form  her  mind  '  ?  This  was  a 
common  phrase  of  words  which  had  a  fair  and  promising  sound,  and  I  resolved  to 
form  Dora's  mind. 

I  began  immediately.  When  Dora  was  very  childish,  and  I  would  have  infinitely 
preferred  to  humour  her,  I  tried  to  be  grave — and  disconcerted  her,  and  myself  too. 
I  talked  to  her  on  the  subjects  which  occupied  my  thoughts  ;  and  I  read  Shakespeare 
to  her — and  fatigued  her  to  the  last  degree.  I  accustomed  myself  to  giving  her,  as 
it  were  quite  casually,  little  scraps  of  useful  information,  or  sound  opinion — and  she 
started  from  them  when  I  let  them  off,  as  if  they  had  been  crackers.  No  matter  how 
incidentally  or  naturally  I  endeavoured  to  form  my  little  wife's  mind,  I  could  not 
help  seeing  that  she  always  had  an  instinctive  perception  of  what  I  was  about,  and 
became  a  prey  to  the  keenest  apprehensions.  In  particular,  it  was  clear  to  me, 
that  she  thought  Shakespeare  a  terrible  fellow.  The  formation  went  on  very 
slowly. 

I  pressed  Traddles  into  the  service  without  his  knowledge  ;  and  whenever  he 
came  to  see  us,  exploded  my  mines  upon  him  for  the  edification  of  Dora  at  second 
hand.  The  amount  of  practical  wisdom  I  bestowed  upon  Traddles  in  this  manner 
was  immense,  and  of  the  best  quality  ;  but  it  had  no  other  effect  upon  Dora  than  to 
depress  her  spirits,  and  make  her  always  nervous  with  the  dread  that  it  would  be  her 
turn  next.  I  found  myself  in  the  condition  of  a  schoolmaster,  a  trap,  a  pitfall ;  of 
always  playing  spider  to  Dora's  fly,  and  always  pouncing  out  of  my  hole  to  her  infinite 
disturbance. 

Still,  looking  forward  through  this  intermediate  stage,  to  the  time  when  there 
should  be  a  perfect  sympathy  between  Dora  and  me,  and  when  I  should  have  '  formed 
her  mind  '  to  my  entire  satisfaction,  I  persevered,  even  for  months.  Finding  at  last, 
however,  that,  although  I  had  been  all  this  time  a  very  porcupine  or  hedgehog, 
bristling  all  over  with  determination,  I  had  effected  nothing,  it  began  to  occur  to  me 
that  perhaps  Dora's  mind  was  already  formed. 

On  further  consideration  this  appeared  so  likely,  that  I  abandoned  my  scheme, 
which  had  had  a  more  promising  appearance  in  words  than  in  action  ;  resolving 
henceforth  to  be  satisfied  with  my  child-wife,  and  to  try  to  change  her  into  nothing 
else  by  any  process.  I  was  heartily  tired  of  being  sagacious  and  prudent  by  myself, 
and  of  seeing  my  darling  under  restraint ;  so,  I  bought  a  pretty  pair  of  ear-rings  for 
her,  and  a  collar  for  Jip,  and  went  home  one  day  to  make  myself  agreeable. 

Dora  was  delighted  with  the  little  presents,  and  kissed  me  joyfully  ;  but,  there 
was  a  shadow  between  us,  however  slight,  and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  it  should 
not  be  there.  If  there  must  be  such  a  shadow  anywhere,  I  would  keep  it  for  the 
future  in  my  own  breast. 

I  sat  down  by  my  wife  on  the  sofa,  and  put  the  ear-rings  in  her  ears  ;  and  then 
I  told  her  that  I  feared  we  had  not  been  quite  as  good  company  lately,  as  we  used 
to  be,  and  that  the  fault  was  mine.     Which  I  sincerely  felt,  and  which  indeed  it  was. 

'  The  truth  is,  Dora,  my  life,'  I  said,  '  I  have  been  trying  to  be  wise.' 

'  And  to  make  me  wise  too,'  said  Dora,  timidly.     '  Haven't  you,  Doady  ?  ' 


DOMESTIC  458 

I  nodded  assent  to  the  pretty  iiujuiry  of  tlie  raised  eyebrows,  and  kissed  the 
parted  lips. 

'  It 's  of  not  a  bit  of  use,'  said  Dora,  shaiiing  her  head,  until  the  ear-rings  rang 
again.  '  You  know  what  a  iittlf  tiling  I  am,  and  what  I  wanted  you  to  call  me  from 
the  first.  If  you  can't  do  so,  I  uin  afraid  you  'il  never  like  me.  Are  you  sure  you 
don't  think,  sometimes,  it  woukl  have  V)een  better  to  have ' 

'  Done  what,  my  dear  ?  '     For  she  made  no  effort  to  proceed. 

'  Nothing  !  '    said  Dora. 

'  Nothing  ?  '    I  repeated. 

She  put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  lauglied,  and  called  herself  by  her  favourite 
name  of  a  goose,  and  hid  her  face  on  my  sliouldcr  in  such  a  profusion  of  curls  that  it 
was  quite  a  task  to  clear  them  away  and  see  it. 

'  Don't  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  done  nothing,  than  to  have 
tried  to  form  my  little  wife's  mind?'  said  T,  laughing  at  myself.  'Is  that  the 
question  ?     Yes,  indeed,  I  do.' 

'  Is  that  what  you  have  been  trying  ?  '   cried  Dora.     '  Oh  what  a  shocking  boy  !  ' 

'  But  I  shall  never  try  any  more,'  said  I.     '  For  I  love  her  dearly  as  she  is.' 

'  Without  a  story — really  ?  '    inquired  Dora,  creeping  closer  to  me. 

'  Why  should  I  seek  to  change,'  said  I,  '  what  has  been  so  precious  to  me  for  so 
long  ?  You  never  can  show  better  than  as  your  own  natural  self,  my  sweet  Dora  ; 
and  we  '11  try  no  conceited  experiments,  but  go  back  to  our  old  way,  and  be  happy.' 

'  And  be  happy  !  '  returned  Dora.  '  Yes  !  All  day  !  And  you  won't  mind 
things  going  a  tiny  morsel  wrong,  sometimes  ?  ' 

'  No,  no,'  said  I.     '  We  must  do  the  best  we  can.' 

'  And  you  won't  tell  me,  any  more,  that  we  make  other  people  bad,'  coaxed  Dora  ; 
'  will  you  ?     Because  you  know  it 's  so  dreadfully  cross  !  ' 

'  No,  no,'  said  I. 

'  It 's  better  for  me  to  be  stuj)id  than  uncomfortable,  isn't  it  ?  '   said  Dora. 

'  Better  to  be  naturally  Dora  than  anything  else  in  the  world.' 

'  In  the  world  !     Ah,  Doady,  it 's  a  large  place  !  ' 

She  shook  her  head,  turned  her  delighted  bright  eyes  up  to  mine,  kissed  me, 
broke  into  a  merry  laugh,  and  sprang  away  to  put  on  Jip's  new  collar. 

So  ended  my  last  attempt  to  make  any  change  in  Dora.  I  had  been  unhappy 
in  trying  it ;  I  could  not  endure  my  own  solitarj'  wisdom  ;  I  could  not  reconcile  it 
with  her  former  appeal  to  me  as  my  child-wife.  I  resolved  to  do  what  I  could,  in  a 
quiet  way,  to  improve  our  proceedings  myself  :  but,  I  foresaw  that  my  utmost  would 
be  very  little,  or  I  must  degenerate  into  the  spider  again,  and  be  for  ever  I}ing  in  wait. 

And  the  shadow  I  have  mentioned,  that  was  not  to  be  between  us  any  more, 
but  was  to  rest  wholly  on  my  own  heart.     How  did  that  fall  ? 

The  old  unhappy  feeling  pervaded  my  life.  It  was  deepened,  if  it  were  changed 
at  all ;  but  it  was  as  undefined  as  ever,  and  addressed  me  like  a  strain  of  sorrowful 
music  faintly  heard  in  the  night.  I  loved  my  wife  dearly,  and  I  was  happy  ;  but 
the  happiness  I  had  vaguely  anticipated,  once,  was  not  the  happiness  I  enjoyed,  and 
there  was  always  something  wanting. 

In  fulfilment  of  the  compact  I  have  made  with  myself,  to  reflect  my  mind  on 
this  paper,  I  again  examine  it,  closely,  and  bring  its  secrets  to  the  light.  What  1 
missed,  I  still  regarded — I  always  regarded — as  something  that  had  been  a  dream 
of  my  youthful  fancy  ;   that  was  incapable  of  realisation  ;   that  I  was  now  discovering 


454  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

to  be  so,  with  some  natural  pain,  as  all  men  did.  But,  that  it  would  have  been  better 
for  me  if  my  wife  could  have  helped  me  more,  and  shared  the  many  thoughts  in  which 
I  had  no  partner  ;    and  that  this  might  have  been  ;    I  knew. 

Between  these  two  irreconcileable  conclusions  :  the  one,  that  what  I  felt  was 
general  and  unavoidable  ;  the  other,  that  it  was  particular  to  me,  and  might  have  been 
different :  I  balanced  curiously,  with  no  distinct  sense  of  their  opposition  to  each 
other.  When  I  thought  of  the  airy  dreams  of  youth  that  are  incapable  of  realisation, 
I  thought  of  the  better  state  preceding  manhood  that  I  had  outgrown.  And  then 
the  contented  daj-^s  with  Agnes,  in  the  dear  old  house,  arose  before  me,  like  spectres 
of  the  dead,  that  might  have  some  renewal  in  another  world,  but  never  never  more 
could  be  reanimated  here. 

Sometimes,  the  speculation  came  into  my  thoughts,  What  might  have  happened, 
or  what  would  have  happened,  if  Dora  and  I  had  never  known  each  other  ?  But, 
she  was  so  incorporated  with  my  existence,  that  it  was  the  idlest  of  all  fancies,  and 
would  soon  rise  out  of  my  reach  and  sight,  like  gossamer  floating  in  the  air. 

I  always  loved  her.  AVhat  I  am  describing,  slumbered,  and  half  awoke,  and 
slept  again,  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  my  mind.  There  was  no  evidence  of  it  in 
me ;  I  know  of  no  influence  it  had  in  anything  I  said  or  did.  I  bore  the  weight  of 
all  our  little  cares,  and  all  my  projects  ;  Dora  held  the  pens  ;  and  we  both  felt  that 
our  shares  were  adjusted  as  the  case  required.  She  was  truly  fond  of  me,  and  proud 
of  me ;  and  when  Agnes  wrote  a  few  earnest  words  in  her  letters  to  Dora,  of  the  pride 
and  interest  with  which  my  old  friends  heard  of  my  growing  reputation,  and  read 
my  book  as  if  they  heard  me  speaking  its  contents,  Dora  read  them  out  to  me  with 
tears  of  joy  in  her  bright  eyes,  and  said  I  was  a  dear  old  clever,  famous  boy. 

'  The  first  mistaken  impulse  of  an  undisciplined  heart.'  Those  words  of  Mrs. 
Strong's  were  constantly  recurring  to  me,  at  this  time  ;  were  almost  always  present 
to  my  mind.  I  awoke  with  them,  often,  in  the  night ;  I  remember  to  have  even  read 
them,  in  dreams,  inscribed  upon  the  walls  of  houses.  For  I  knew,  now,  that  my  own 
heart  was  undisciplined  when  it  first  loved  Dora  ;  and  that  if  it  had  been  disciplined, 
it  never  could  have  felt,  when  we  were  married,  what  it  had  felt  in  its  secret  experience. 

'  There  can  be  no  disparity  in  marriage,  like  unsuitability  of  mind  and  purpose.' 
Those  words  I  remembered  too.  I  had  endeavoured  to  adapt  Dora  to  myself,  and 
found  it  impracticable.  It  remained  for  me  to  adapt  myself  to  Dora  ;  to  share  with 
her  what  I  could,  and  be  happy  ;  to  bear  on  my  own  shoulders  what  I  must,  and  be 
still  happy.  This  was  the  discipline  to  which  I  tried  to  bring  my  heart,  when  I  began 
to  think.  It  made  my  second  year  much  happier  than  my  first ;  and,  what  was  better 
still,  made  Dora's  life  all  sunshine. 

But,  as  that  year  wore  on,  Dora  was  not  strong.  I  had  hoped  that  lighter  hands 
than  mine  would  help  to  mould  her  character,  and  that  a  baby-smile  upon  her  breast 
might  change  my  child-wife  to  a  woman.  It  was  not  to  be.  The  spirit  fluttered 
for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  its  little  prison,  and,  unconscious  of  captivity, 
took  wing. 

'  When  I  can  run  about  again,  as  I  used  to  do,  aunt,'  said  Dora,  '  I  shall  make 
Jip  race.     He  is  getting  quite  slow  and  lazy.' 

'  I  suspect,  my  dear,'  said  my  aunt,  quietly  working  by  her  side,  '  he  has  a  worse 
disorder  than  that.     Age,  Dora.' 

'  Do  you  think  he  is  old  ?  '  said  Dora,  astonished.  '  Oh,  how  strange  it  seems 
that  Jip  should  be  old  !  ' 


i)OMi:sTi(;  455 

'  It 's  a  coin|)kiiiit  wc  are  all  liable  to,  Little  One,  as  wc  get  on  in  life,'  said  my 
aunt,  cheerfully  ;    '  I  don't  feel  more  free  from  it  than  I  used  to  be,  I  assure  you.' 

'  But  Jip,'  said  Dora,  looking  at  him  with  compassion,  '  even  little  Jip  !  Oh, 
poor  fellow  !  ' 

'  I  dare  say  he  Ml  last  a  long  time  yet,  Blossom,'  said  my  aunt,  patting  Dora  on 
the  cheek,  as  she  leaned  out  of  her  couch  to  look  at  Jip,  who  responded  by  standing 
on  his  hind-legs,  and  baulking  himself  in  various  asthmatic  attempts  to  scramble 
up  by  the  head  and  shoulders.  '  lie  must  have  a  piece  of  flannel  in  his  house  this 
winter,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  came  out  quite  fresh  again,  with  the  flowers  in 
the  spring.  Bless  the  little  dog  !  '  exclaimed  my  aunt.  '  If  he  hari  as  many  lives 
as  a  cat,  and  was  on  the  point  of  losing  'em  all,  he  'd  bark  at  me  with  his  last  breath, 
I  believe  !  ' 

Dora  had  helped  him  up  on  the  sofa  ;  where  he  really  was  defying  my  aunt  to 
such  a  furious  extent,  that  he  couldn't  keep  straight,  but  barked  himself  sideways. 
The  more  my  aunt  looked  at  him,  the  more  he  reproached  her  ;  for,  she  had  lately 
taken  to  spectacles,  and  for  some  inscrutalile  reason  he  considered  the  glasses  personal. 

Dora  made  him  lie  down  by  her,  with  a  good  deal  of  persuasion  ;  and  when  he 
was  quiet,  drew  one  of  his  long  ears  through  and  through  her  hand,  repeating 
thoughtfully,  '  Even  little  Jip  !     Oh,  poor  fellow  !  ' 

'  His  lungs  are  good  enough,'  said  my  aunt,  gaily,  '  and  his  dislikes  are  not  at  all 
feeble.  He  has  a  good  many  years  before  him,  no  doubt.  But  if  you  want  a  dog 
to  race  with.  Little  Blossom,  he  has  lived  too  well  for  that,  and  I  '11  give  you  one.' 

'  Thank  you,  aunt,'  said  Dora,  faintly.     '  But  don't,  please  !  ' 

'  No  ?  '    said  my  aunt,  taking  off  her  spectacles. 

'  I  couldn't  have  any  other  dog  but  Jip,'  said  Dora.  '  It  would  be  so  unkind  to 
Jip  !  Besides,  I  couldn't  be  such  friends  with  any  other  dog  but  Jip  ;  because  he 
wouldn't  have  known  me  before  I  was  married,  and  wouldn't  have  barked  at  Doady 
when  he  first  came  to  our  house.  I  couldn't  care  for  any  other  dog  but  Jip,  I  am 
afraid,  aunt.' 

'  To  be  sure  !  '    said  my  aunt,  patting  her  cheek  again.     '  You  are  right.' 

'  You  are  not  offended,'  said  Dora,  '  are  you  ?  ' 

'  Why,  what  a  sensitive  pet  it  is  !  '  cried  my  aunt,  bending  over  her  affectionately. 
'  To  think  that  I  could  be  offended  !  ' 

'  No,  no,  I  didn't  really  think  so,'  returned  Dora  ;  '  but  I  am  a  little  tired,  and 
it  made  me  silly  for  a  moment — I  am  always  a  silly  little  thing,  you  know  ;  but  it 
made  me  more  silly — to  talk  about  Jip.  He  has  known  me  in  all  that  has  happened 
to  me,  haven't  you,  Jip  ?  And  I  couldn't  bear  to  slight  him,  because  he  was  a  little 
altered — could  I,  Jip  ?  ' 

Jip  nestled  closer  to  his  mistress,  and  lazily  licked  her  hand. 

'  You  are  not  so  old,  Jip,  are  you,  that  you  '11  leave  your  mistress  yet  ?  '  said 
Dora.     '  We  may  keep  one  another  company,  a  little  longer  !  ' 

My  pretty  Dora  !  AVhen  she  came  down  to  dinner  on  the  ensuing  Sunday,  and 
was  so  glad  to  see  old  Traddles  (who  always  dined  with  us  on  Sunday),  we  thought 
she  would  be  '  running  about  as  she  used  to  do,'  in  a  few  days.  But  they  said,  wait 
a  few  days  more,  and  then,  wait  a  few  days  more  ;  and  still  she  neither  ran  nor  walked. 
She  looked  very  pretty,  and  was  very  merry  ;  but  the  little  feet  that  used  to  be  so 
nimble  when  they  danced  round  Jip,  were  dull  and  motionless. 

I  began  to  carry  her  downstairs  every  morning,  and  upstairs  every  night.     She 


456  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

would  clasp  me  round  the  neck  and  laugh,  the  while,  as  if  I  did  it  for  a  wager.  Jlp 
would  bark  and  caper  round  us,  and  go  en  before,  and  look  back  on  the  landing, 
breathing  short,  to  see  that  we  were  coming.  My  aunt,  the  best  and  most  cheerful 
of  nurses,  would  trudge  after  us,  a  moving  mass  of  shawls  and  pillows.  Mr.  Dick 
would  not  have  relinquished  his  post  of  candle-bearer  to  any  one  alive.  Traddles 
would  be  often  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase,  looking  on,  and  taking  charge  of 
sportive  messages  from  Dora  to  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world.  We  made  quite  a  gay 
procession  of  it,  and  my  child-wife  was  the  gayest  there. 

But,  sometimes,  when  I  took  her  up,  and  felt  that  she  was  lighter  in  my  arms, 
a  dead  blank  feeling  came  upon  me,  as  if  I  were  approaching  to  some  frozen  region 
yet  unseen,  that  numbed  my  life.  I  avoided  the  recognition  of  this  feeling  by  any 
name,  or  by  any  communing  with  myself  ;  until  one  night,  when  it  was  very  strong 
upon  me,  and  my  aunt  had  left  her  with  a  parting  cry  of  '  Good-night,  Little  Blossom,' 
I  sat  down  at  my  desk  alone,  and  cried  to  think,  Oh  what  a  fatal  name  it  was,  and 
how  the  blossom  withered  in  its  bloom  upon  the  tree  ! 


CHAPTER    XLIX 


I 


I    AM   INVOLVED    IN    MYSTERY 

RECEIVED  one  morning  by  the  post  the  following  letter,  dated  Canter- 
bury, and  addressed  to  me  at  Doctors'  Commons ;  which  I  read  with  some 
surprise : — • 


My  dear  Sir, 

'  Circumstances  beyond  my  individual  control  have,  for  a  considerable 
lapse  of  time,  effected  a  severance  of  that  intimacy  which,  in  the  limited  opportunities 
conceded  to  me  in  the  midst  of  my  professional  duties,  of  contemplating  the  scenes 
and  events  of  the  past,  tinged  by  the  prismatic  hues  of  memory,  has  ever  afforded  me, 
as  it  ever  must  continue  to  afford,  gratifying  emotions  of  no  common  description. 
This  fact,  my  dear  sir,  combined  with  the  distinguished  elevation  to  which  your 
talents  have  raised  you,  deters  me  from  presuming  to  aspire  to  the  liberty  of  address- 
ing the  companion  of  my  youth,  by  the  familiar  appellation  of  Copperfield  !  It  is 
sufficient  to  know  that  the  name  to  which  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  refer  will  ever 
be  treasured  among  the  muniments  of  our  house  (I  allude  to  the  archives  connected 
with  our  former  lodgers,  preserved  by  Mrs.  Micawber),  with  sentiments  of  personal 
esteem  amounting  to  affection. 

'  It  is  not  for  one  situated,  through  his  original  errors  and  a  fortuitous  com- 
bination of  unpropitious  events,  as  is  the  foundered  Bark  (if  he  may  be  allowed  to 
assume  so  maritime  a  denomination),  who  now  takes  up  the  pen  to  address  you — 
it  is  not,  I  repeat,  for  one  so  circumstanced,  to  adopt  the  language  of  compliment, 
or  of  congratulation.     That,  he  leaves  to  abler  and  purer  hands. 

'  If  your  more  important  avocations  should  admit  of  your  ever  tracing  these 
imperfect  characters  thus  far — which  may  be,  or  may  not  be,  as  circumstances  arise — 
you  will  naturally  inquire  by  what  object  am  I  influenced  then,  in  inditing  the  present 
missive  ?     Allow  me  to  say  that  I  fully  defer  to  the  reasonable  character  of  that 


I  AM  INVOLVED  IN   MYSTERY  457 

inquiry,  and  proceed  to  develop  it  :    premising  that  it  is  7iot  an  ohjret  of  a  pecuniary 
nature. 

'  Without  more  directly  referring  to  any  latent  ability  that  may  possibly  exist 
on  my  part,  of  wielding  the  tliiinderholl,,  or  directing  the  devouring  and  avenging 
flame  in  any  quarter,  1  may  be  permitted  to  observe,  in  passing,  that  rny  brightest 
visions  are  for  ever  dispelled — that  my  peace  is  shattered  and  my  power  of  enjoyment 
destroyed — that  my  heart  is  no  longer  in  the  right  place — and  that  I  no  more  walk 
erect  before  my  fellow-man.  The  canker  is  in  the  llower.  The  cup  is  bitter  to  the 
brim.  The  worm  is  at  his  work,  and  will  soon  dispose  of  his  victim.  The  sooner 
the  better.     But  I  will  not  digress. 

'  Placed  in  a  mental  position  of  peculiar  painfulness,  beyond  the  assuaging  reach 
even  of  Mrs.  Micawber's  influence,  though  exercised  in  the  tri{)artite  character  of 
woman,  wife,  and  mother,  it  is  my  intention  to  fly  from  myself  for  a  short  period, 
and  devote  a  respite  of  eight-and-forty  hours  to  revisiting  some  metropolitan  scenes 
of  past  enjoyment.  Among  other  havens  of  domestic  trancjuillity  and  peace  of  mind, 
my  feet  will  naturally  tend  towards  the  King's  Bench  Prison.  In  stating  that  I  shall 
be  (D.V.)  on  the  outside  of  the  south  wall  of  that  place  of  incarceration  on  civil 
process,  the  day  after  to-morrow,  at  seven  in  the  evening,  precisely,  my  object  in 
this  epistolary  communication  is  accomplished. 

'  I  do  not  feel  warranted  in  soliciting  my  former  friend  Mr.  Copperfield,  or  my 
former  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  of  the  Inner  Temple,  if  that  gentleman  is  still 
existent  and  forthcoming,  to  condescend  to  meet  me,  and  renew  (so  far  as  may  be) 
our  past  relations  of  the  olden  time.  I  confine  myself  to  throwing  out  the  observa- 
tion, that,  at  the  hour  and  place  I  have  indicated,  may  be  found  such  ruined  vestiges 
as  yet 

'  Remain, 
'Of 
'A 

'  Fallen  Tower, 

'  WiLKINS  M1C.A.WBER. 

'  P.S.  It  may  be  advisable  to  superadd  to  the  above,  the  statement  that  Mrs. 
Micawber  is  not  in  confidential  possession  of  my  intentions.' 

I  read  the  letter  over  several  times.  Making  due  allowance  for  Mr.  Micawber's 
lofty  style  of  composition,  and  for  the  extraordinary  relish  with  which  he  sat  down 
and  wrote  long  letters  on  all  possible  and  impossible  occasions,  I  still  believed  that 
something  important  lay  hidden  at  the  bottom  of  this  roundabout  communication. 
I  put  it  down,  to  think  about  it ;  and  took  it  up  again,  to  read  it  once  more  ;  and 
was  still  pursuing  it,  when  Traddles  found  me  in  the  height  of  my  perplexity. 

'  My  dear  fellow,'  said  I,  '  I  never  was  better  pleased  to  see  you.  You  come  to 
give  me  the  benefit  of  your  sober  judgment  at  a  most  opportune  time.  I  have 
received  a  very  singular  letter,  Traddles,  from  Mr  Micawber.' 

'  No  ?  '  cried  Traddles.  '  You  don't  say  so  ?  And  I  have  received  one  from 
Mrs.  Micawber  !  ' 

With  that,  Traddles,  who  was  flushed  with  walking,  and  whose  hair,  under  the 
combined  effects  of  exercise  and  excitement,  stood  on  end  as  if  he  saw  a  cheerful  ghost, 
produced  his  letter  and  made  an  exchange  with  me.     I  watched  him  into  the  heart 

p2 


458  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

of  Mr.  Micawber's  letter,  and  returned  the  elevation  of  eye-brows  with  which  he 
said  '  "  Wielding  the  thunderbolt,  or  directing  the  devouring  and  avenging  flame  !  " 
Bless  me,  Copperfield  !  ' — and  then  entered  on  the  perusual  of  Mrs  Micawber's  epistle. 

It  ran  thus  : — 

'  My  best  regards  to  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  and  if  he  should  still  remember  one 
who  formerly  had  the  happiness  of  being  well  acquainted  with  him,  may  I  beg  a  few 
moments  of  his  leisure  time  ?  I  assure  Mr.  T.  T.  that  I  would  not  intrude  upon  his 
kindness,  were  I  in  any  other  position  than  on  the  confines  of  distraction. 

'  Though  harrowing  to  myself  to  mention,  the  alienation  of  Mr.  Micawber 
(formerly  so  domesticated)  from  his  wife  and  family,  is  the  cause  of  my  addressing 
my  unhappy  appeal  to  Mr.  Traddles,  and  soliciting  his  best  indulgence.  Mr.  T.  can 
form  no  adequate  idea  of  the  change  in  Mr.  Micawber's  conduct,  of  his  wildness, 
of  his  violence.  It  has  gradually  augmented,  until  it  assumes  the  appearance  of 
aberration  of  intellect.  Scarcely  a  day  passes,  I  assure  Mr.  Traddles,  on  which  some 
paroxysm  does  not  take  place.  Mr.  T.  will  not  require  me  to  depict  my  feelings, 
when  I  inform  him  that  I  have  become  accustomed  to  hear  Mr.  Micawber  assert  that 
he  has  sold  himself  to  the  D.  Mystery  and  secrecy  have  long  been  his  principal 
characteristic,  have  long  replaced  luilimited  confidence.  The  slightest  provocation, 
even  being  asked  if  there  is  anything  he  would  prefer  for  dinner,  causes  him  to  express 
a  wish  for  a  separation.  Last  night,  on  being  childishly  solicited  for  twopence,  to  buy 
"  lemon-stunners  " — a  local  sweetmeat — he  presented  an  oyster-knife  at  the  twins  ! 

'  I  entreat  Mr.  Traddles  to  bear  with  me  in  entering  into  these  details.  Without 
them,  Mr.  T.  would  indeed  find  it  difficult  to  form  the  faintest  conception  of  my 
heart-rending  situation. 

'  May  I  now  venture  to  confide  to  Mr,  T.  the  purport  of  my  letter  ?  Will  he  now 
allow  me  to  throw  myself  on  his  friendly  consideration  ?  Oh  yes,  for  I  know  his 
heart  ! 

'  The  quick  eye  of  affection  is  not  easily  blinded,  when  of  the  female  sex.  Mr. 
Micawber  is  going  to  London.  Though  he  studiously  concealed  his  hand,  this 
morning  before  breakfast,  in  writing  the  direction-card  which  he  attached  to  the 
little  brown  valise  of  happier  days,  the  eagle-glance  of  matrimonial  anxiety  detected 
d,  o,  n,  distinctly  traced.  The  West-End  destination  of  the  coach,  is  the  Golden 
Cross.  Dare  I  fervently  implore  Mr.  T.  to  see  my  misguided  husband,  and  to  reason 
with  him  V  Dare  I  ask  Mr.  T.  to  endeavour  to  step  in  between  Mr.  Micawber  and 
his  agonised  family  ?     Oh  no,  for  that  would  be  too  much  ! 

'  If  Mr.  Copperfield  should  yet  remember  one  unknown  to  fame,  will  Mr.  T.  take 
charge  of  my  unalterable  regards  and  similar  entreaties  ?  In  any  case,  he  will  have 
the  benevolence  to  consider  this  communication  strictly  private,  and  on  no  account 
whatever  to  be  alluded  to,  however  distantly,  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Micawber.  If  Mr.  T. 
should  ever  reply  to  it  (which  I  cannot  but  feel  to  be  most  improbable),  a  letter 
addressed  to  M.  E.,  Post  Office,  Canterbury,  \vill  be  fraught  with  less  painful  conse- 
quences than  any  addressed  immediately  to  one,  who  subscribes  herself,  in  extreme 
distress, 

'  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles's  respectful  friend  and  suppliant, 

'  Emma  Micawber.' 

'  What  do  you  think  of  that  letter  ?  '  said  Traddles,  casting  his  eyes  upon  me, 
when  I  had  read  it  twice. 


I  AM   rNVOIiVKI)   IN   MVSTKKY  459 

'  VVliat  do  you  think  of  lli<'  oilier?'  suid  I.  J'or  he  \v;is  slill  reading  it  with 
knitted  brows. 

'  I  think  that  the  two  together,  Copperfield,'  replied  Traddles,  '  mean  more  than 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawbcr  iisuall)  mean  in  their  eorrcspondeiiee — but  I  don't  know 
what.  They  are  both  written  in  good  faith,  1  have  no  doubt,  and  without  any 
collusion.  Poor  thing  !  '  he  was  now  alluding  to  Mrs.  Micawber's  letter,  and  we 
were  standing  side  by  side  conij)aring  the  two  ;  '  it  will  be  a  charity  to  write  to  her, 
at  all  events,  and  tell  her  that  we  will  not  fail  to  see  Mr.  Mieawber.' 

I  acceded  to  this,  the  more  readily,  because  I  now  reproached  myself  with  having 
treated  her  former  letter  rather  lightly.  It  had  set  me  thinking  a  good  deal  at  the 
time,  as  I  have  mentioned  in  its  place  ;  but  my  absorption  in  my  own  affairs,  my 
experience  of  the  family,  and  my  hearing  nothing  more,  had  gradually  ended  in  my 
dismissing  the  subject.  I  had  often  thought  of  the  Micawbers,  but  chiefly  to  wonder 
what  '  pecuniary  liabilities'  they  were  establishing  in  Canterbury,  and  to  recall  how 
shy  Mr.  Micawbcr  was  of  me  when  he  became  clerk  to  Uriah  Heep. 

However,  I  now  wrote  a  comforting  letter  to  Mrs.  Mieawber,  in  our  joint  names, 
and  we  both  signed  it.  As  we  walked  into  town  to  post  it,  Traddles  and  I  held  a 
long  conference,  and  launched  into  a  number  of  speculations,  which  I  need  not  repeat. 
We  took  my  aunt  into  our  counsels  in  the  afternoon  ;  but  our  only  decided  conclusion 
was,  that  we  would  be  very  punctual  in  keeping  Mr.  Micawber's  appointment. 

Although  we  appeared  at  the  stipulated  place  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the 
time,  we  found  Mr.  Micawl)er  already  there.  He  was  standing  with  liis  arms  folded, 
over  against  the  wall,  looking  at  the  si)ikes  on  the  top,  with  a  sentimental  expression, 
as  if  they  were  the  interlacing  boughs  of  trees  that  had  shaded  him  in  his  youth. 

When  we  accosted  him,  his  maimer  was  something  more  confused,  and  some- 
thing less  genteel  than  of  yore.  He  had  relinquished  his  legal  suit  of  black  for  the 
purposes  of  this  excursion,  and  wore  the  old  surtout  and  tights,  but  not  quite  with  the 
old  air.  He  gradually  pielccd  up  more  and  more  of  it  as  we  conversed  with  him  ; 
but,  his  very  eye-glass  seemed  to  hang  less  easily,  and  his  shirt-collar,  though  still 
of  the  old  formidable  dimensions,  rather  drooped. 

'  Gentlemen  !  '  said  Mr.  Mieawber,  after  the  fu\st  salutations,  '  you  are  friends 
in  need,  and  friends  indeed.  Allow  me  to  offer  my  inquiries  with  reference  to  the 
physical  welfare  of  Mrs.  Copperfield  in  esse,  and  Mrs.  Traddles  in  posse, — presuming, 
that  is  to  say,  that  my  friend  Mr.  Traddles  is  not  yet  united  to  the  object  of  his 
affections,  for  weal  and  for  woe.' 

We  acknowledged  his  politeness,  and  made  suitable  replies.  He  then  directed 
our  attention  to  the  wall,  and  was  beginning,  '  I  assure  you,  gentlemen,'  when  I 
ventured  to  object  to  that  ceremonious  form  of  address,  and  to  beg  that  he  would 
speak  to  us  in  the  old  way. 

'  My  dear  Co[)perfield,'  he  returned,  jiressing  my  hand,  '  your  cordiality  over- 
powers me.  This  reception  of  a  shattered  fragment  of  the  Temple  once  called  Man — 
if  I  may  be  permitted  so  to  express  myself — bespeaks  a  heart  that  is  an  honour  to  our 
common  nature.  I  was  about  to  observe  that  I  again  behold  the  serene  spot  where 
some  of  the  happiest  hours  of  my  existence  fleeted  by.' 

'  Made  so,  I  am  sure,  by  Mrs.  Mieawber,'  said  I.     '  I  hope  she  is  well  ?  ' 

'  Thank  you,'  returned  Mr.  Mieawber,  whose  face  clouded  at  this  reference,  '  she 
is  but  so-so.  And  this,'  said  Mr.  Mieawber,  nodding  his  head  sorrowfully,  '  is  the 
Bench.     \Miere,  for  the  first  time  in  many  revolving  years,  the  overwhehiiing  pressure 


460  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

of  pecuniary  liabilities  was  not  proclaimed,  from  day  to  day,  by  importunate  voices 
declining  to  vacate  the  passage  ;  Avhere  tnere  was  no  knocker  on  the  door  for  anj'^ 
creditor  to  appeal  to  ;  where  personal  service  of  process  was  not  required,  and  detainers 
were  merely  lodged  at  the  gate  !  Gentlemen,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  when  the  shadow 
of  that  iron-work  on  the  summit  of  the  brick  structure  has  been  reflected  on  the  gravel 
of  the  Parade,  I  have  seen  my  children  thread  the  mazes  of  the  intricate  pattern, 
avoiding  the  dark  marks.  I  have  been  familiar  with  every  stone  in  the  place.  If  I 
betray  weakness,  you  will  know  how  to  excuse  me.' 

'  We  have  all  got  on  in  life  since  then,  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  I. 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  bitterly,  '  when  I  was  an  inmate  of 
that  retreat,  I  could  look  my  fellow-man  in  the  face,  and  punch  his  head  if  he  offended 
me.     My  fellow-man  and  myself  are  no  longer  on  those  glorious  terms  !  ' 

Turning  from  the  building  in  a  downcast  manner,  Mr.  Micawber  accepted  my 
proffered  arm  on  one  side,  and  the  proffered  arm  of  Traddles  on  the  other,  and  walked 
away  between  us. 

'  There  are  some  landmarks,'  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  looking  fondly  back  over 
his  shoulder,  '  on  the  road  to  the  tomb,  which,  but  for  the  impiety  of  the  aspiration, 
a  man  would  wish  never  to  have  passed.     Such  is  the  Bench  in  my  chequered  career.' 

'  Oh,  you  are  in  low  spirits,  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  Traddles. 

'  I  am,  sir,'  interposed  Mr.  Micawber. 

'  I  hope,'  said  Traddles,  '  it  is  not  because  you  have  conceived  a  dishke  to  the 
law— for  I  am  a  lawyer  myself,  you  know.' 

Mr.  Micawber  answered  not  a  word. 

'  How  is  our  friend  Heep,  Mr.  Micawber  ?  '   said  I,  after  a  silence. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  bursting  into  a  state  of  much 
excitement,  and  turning  pale,  '  if  you  ask  after  my  employer  as  your  friend,  I  am  sorry 
for  it ;  if  you  ask  after  him  as  my  friend,  I  sardonically  smile  at  it.  In  whatever 
capacity  you  ask  after  my  employer,  I  beg,  without  offence  to  you,  to  limit  my  reply 
to  this — that  whatever  his  state  of  health  may  be,  his  appearance  is  foxy  :  not  to 
say  diabolical.  You  will  allow  me,  as  a  private  individual,  to  decline  pursuing  a 
subject  which  has  lashed  me  to  the  utmost  verge  of  desperation  in  my  professional 
capacity.' 

I  expressed  my  regret  for  having  innocently  touched  upon  a  theme  that  roused 
him  so  much.  '  May  I  ask,'  said  I,  '  without  any  hazard  of  repeating  the  mistake, 
how  my  old  friends  Mr.  and  Miss  Wickfield  are  ?  ' 

'  Miss  Wickfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  now  turning  red,  '  is,  as  she  always  is, 
a  pattern,  and  a  bright  example.  My  dear  Copperfield,  she  is  the  only  starry  spot 
in  a  miserable  existence.  My  respect  for  that  young  lady,  my  admiration  of  her 
character,  my  devotion  to  her  for  her  love  and  truth,  and  goodness  ! — Take  me,' 
said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  down  a  turning,  for,  upon  my  soul,  in  my  present  state  of  mind 
I  am  not  equal  to  this  !  ' 

We  wheeled  him  off  into  a  narrow  street,  where  he  took  out  his  pocket-handker- 
chief, and  stood  with  his  back  to  a  wall.  If  I  looked  as  gravely  at  him  as  Traddles 
did,  he  must  have  found  our  company  by  no  means  inspiriting. 

'  It  is  my  fate,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  imfeignedly  sobbing,  but  doing  even  that, 
with  a  shadow  of  the  old  exj)ression  of  doing  something  genteel  ;  '  it  is  my  fate, 
gentlemen,  that  the  finer  feelings  of  our  nature  have  become  reproaches  to  me.  My 
homage  to  Miss  Wickfield,  is  a  flight  of  arrows  in  my  bosom.     You  had  better  leave 


T  AM  TNVOLVKI)   IN  MYSTIlflY  461 

IMC,  if  you  please,  to  walk  the  earth  as  a  vagahoiid.  The  worm  will  settle  my  business 
in  douhle-cjuick  time.' 

Without  attending  to  this  invocation,  we  stood  hy,  until  he  jjul  up  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  pulled  u])  his  shirt-eoMar,  and,  to  delude  any  person  in  the  nei^^hhour- 
hood  who  might  have  been  oijserviiig  him,  hummed  a  tunc  with  his  hat  very  much  on 
one  side.  I  then  mentioned — not  knowing  what  might  be  lost  if  wc  lost  sight  of  him 
yet- — that  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  introduce  him  to  my  aunt,  if  he  would 
ride  out  to  Highgate,  where  a  bed  was  at  his  service. 

'  You  shall  make  us  a  glass  of  your  own  punch,  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  I,  '  and  forget 
whatever  you  have  on  your  mind,  in  pleasanter  reminiscences.' 

'  Or,  if  confiding  anything  to  friends  will  be  more  likely  to  relieve  you,  you  shall 
impart  it  to  us,  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  Traddies,  jjrudently. 

'  Gentlemen,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  '  do  with  me  a.s  you  will  !  I  am  a  straw 
upon  the  surface  of  the  deep,  and  am  tossed  in  all  directions  by  the  elephants — I  beg 
your  pardon  ;    I  should  have  said  the  elements.' 

We  walked  on,  arm-in-arm,  again  ;  found  the  coach  in  the  act  of  starting  ;  and 
arrived  at  Highgate  without  encountering  any  difliculties  by  the  way.  I  was  very 
uneasy  and  very  uncertain  in  my  mind  what  to  say  or  do  for  the  best — so  was  Traddies, 
evidently.  Mr.  Micawber  was  for  the  most  part  plunged  into  deep  gloom.  He  occa- 
sionally made  an  attempt  to  smarten  himself,  and  hum  the  fag-end  of  a  tune  ;  but  his 
relapses  into  profound  melancholy  w'crc  only  made  the  more  imjiressive  by  the  mockery 
of  a  hat  exceedingly  on  one  side,  and  a  shirt-collar  pulled  uj)  to  his  eyes. 

We  went  to  my  aunt's  house  rather  than  to  mine,  because  of  Dora's  not  being 
well.  My  aunt  presented  herself  on  being  sent  for,  and  welcomed  Mr.  Micawber 
with  gracious  cordiality.  Mr.  Micawber  kissed  her  hand,  retired  to  the  window, 
and  pulling  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  had  a  mental  wrestle  with  himself. 

Mr.  Dick  was  at  home.  He  was  b}'  nature  so  exceedingly  compassionate  of  any 
one  who  seemed  to  be  ill  at  ease,  and  was  so  quick  to  find  any  such  person  out,  that  he 
shook  hands  with  Mr.  Micawber,  at  least  half  a  dozen  times  in  five  minutes.  To 
Mr.  Micawber,  in  his  trouble,  this  warmth,  on  the  part  of  a  stranger,  was  so  extremely 
touching,  that  he  could  only  say  on  the  occasion  of  each  successive  shake,  '  My  dear 
sir,  you  overpower  me  !  '  Which  gratified  Mr.  Dick  so  much,  that  he  went  at  it  again 
with  greater  vigour  than  before. 

'  The  friendliness  of  this  gentleman,'  said  Mr.  Micawber  to  my  aunt,  '  if  you  will 
allow  me,  ma'am,  to  call  a  figure  of  speech  from  the  vocabulary  of  our  coarser  national 
sports — floors  me.  To  a  man  who  is  struggling  with  a  complicated  burden  of  per- 
plexity and  disquiet,  such  a  reception  is  trying,  I  assure  you.' 

'  My  friend  Mr.  Dick,'  replied  my  aunt,  proudly,  '  is  not  a  common  man.' 

'  That  I  am  convinced  of,'  said  Mr.  Micawber.  '  My  dear  sir  !  '  for  Mr.  Dick 
was  shaking  hands  with  him  again  ;    '  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  your  cordiality  !  ' 

'  How  do  3'ou  find  yourself  ?  '    said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an  anxious  look. 

'  Indifferent,  my  dear  sir,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  sighing. 

'  You  must  keep  up  your  spirits,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  '  and  make  yourself  as  com- 
fortable as  possible.' 

Mr.  Micawber  was  quite  overcome  by  these  friendly  words,  and  by  finding  Mr. 
Dick's  hand  again  within  his  own.  '  It  has  been  my  lot,'  he  observed,  '  to  meet,  in 
the  diversified  panorama  of  human  existence,  with  an  occasional  oasis,  but  never 
with  one  so  green,  so  gushing,  as  the  present  !  ' 


462  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

At  another  time  I  should  have  beeu  amused  by  this  ;  but  I  felt  that  we  were  all 
constrained  and  uneasy,  and  I  watched  Mr.  Micawber  so  anxiously,  in  his  vacillations 
between  an  e\'ident  disposition  to  reveal  something,  and  a  counter-disposition  to 
reveal  nothing,  that  I  was  in  a  perfect  fever.  Traddles,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his 
chair,  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  and  his  hair  more  emphatically  erect  than  ever, 
stared  by  turns  at  the  groimd  and  at  Mr.  Micawber,  without  so  much  as  attempting 
to  put  in  a  word.  I\Iy  aunt,  though  I  saw  that  her  shrewdest  observation  was  con- 
centrated on  her  new  guest,  had  more  useful  possession  of  her  wits  than  either  of  us  ; 
for  she  held  him  in  conversation,  and  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  talk,  whether  he 
liked  it  or  not. 

'  You  are  a  -very  old  friend  of  my  nephew's,  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  my  aunt.  '  I 
wish  I  had  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before.' 

'  Madam,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  '  I  wish  I  had  had  the  honour  of  knowing  you 
at  an  earlier  period.     I  was  not  always  the  wreck  you  at  present  behold.' 

'  I  hope  Mrs.  Micawber  and  your  familj'  are  well,  sir,'  said  my  aunt. 

Mr.  Micawber  inclined  his  head.  '  They  are  as  well,  ma'am,'  he  desperately 
observed,  after  a  pause,  '  as  Aliens  and  Outcasts  can  ever  hope  to  be.' 

'  Lord  bless  you,  sir  !  '  exclaimed  my  aunt  in  her  abrupt  way.  '  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?  ' 

'  The  subsistence  of  my  family,  ma'am,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,   '  trembles  in 

the  balance.     My  employer ' 

Here  Mr.  Micawber  provokingly  left  off ;  and  began  to  peel  the  lemons  that 
had  been  under  my  directions  set  before  him,  together  with  all  the  other  appliances 
he  used  in  making  punch. 

'  Your  employer,  you  know,'  said  Mr.  Dick,  jogging  his  arm  as  a  gentle  reminder. 

'  My  good  sir,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  '  you  recall  me.  I  am  obliged  to  you.' 
They  shook  hands  again.  '  My  employer,  ma'am — Mr.  Heep — once  did  me  the  favour 
to  observe  to  me,  that  if  I  were  not  in  the  receipt  of  the  stipendiary  emoluments 
appertaining  to  my  engagement  with  him,  I  should  probably  be  a  mountebank  about 
the  country,  swallowing  a  sword-blade,  and  eating  the  devouring  element.  For 
anything  that  I  can  perceive  to  the  contrary,  it  is  still  probable  that  my  children 
may  be  reduced  to  seek  a  livelihood  by  personal  contortion,  while  Mrs.  Micawber 
abets  their  unnatural  feats  by  plaj'ing  the  barrel-organ.' 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  random  but  expressive  flourish  of  his  knife,  signified  that 
these  performances  might  be  expected  to  take  place  after  he  was  no  more  ;  then 
resumed  his  peeling  with  a  desperate  air. 

My  aunt  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  little  round  table  that  she  usually  kept  beside 
her,  and  eyed  him  attentively.  Notwithstanding  the  aversion  with  which  I  regarded 
the  idea  of  entrapping  him  into  any  disclosure  he  was  not  prepared  to  make  voluntarily, 
I  should  have  taken  him  up  at  this  point,  but  for  the  strange  proceedings  in  which 
I  saw  him  engaged  ;  whereof  his  putting  the  lemon-peel  into  the  kettle,  the  sugar 
into  the  snuffer-tray,  the  spirit  into  the  empty  jug,  and  confidently  attempting  to 
pour  boiling  water  out  of  a  candle-stick,  were  among  the  most  remarkable.  I  saw 
that  a  crisis  was  at  hand,  and  it  came.  He  clattered  all  his  means  and  implements 
together,  rose  from  his  chair,  pulled  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  burst  into  tears. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  behind  his  handkerchief,  '  this  is  an 
occupation,  of  all  others,  requiring  an  imtroublcd  mind,  and  self-respect.  I  cannot 
perform  it.     It  is  out  of  the  question.' 


\  AM   INVOLVED  IN  MYSTKIIY  4G8 

'  Mr.  Miciiwber,'  said  1,  '  vvluiL  is  tlic  luatLcr  V  I'ray  spctik  out.  \'oij  are  among 
friends.' 

'  AmoiifT  friends,  sir  ?  '  repeated  Mr.  Micawltcr  ;  and  all  he  had  reserved  came 
breaking  out  of  Fiim.  '  Good  heavens,  it  is  prineipaliy  heeause  I  am  arnotig  friends 
that  my  state  of  mind  is  what  it  is.  What  is  the  matter,  gentlemen  ?  What  is  not 
the  matter  ?  Villainy  is  the  matter ;  baseness  is  the  matter  ;  deception,  fraud, 
conspiracy,  are  the  matter  ;   and  the  name  of  the  whole  atrocious  mass  is — IIei;p  1  ' 

My  aunt  clapped  her  hands,  and  we  all  started  up  as  if  we  were  possessed. 

'  The  struggle  is  over  !  '  said  Mr.  Micawber,  violently  gesticulating  with  his 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  fairly  striking  out  from  time  to  time  with  fjoth  arms,  as 
if  he  were  swimming  under  superhuiniin  dillicullies.  '  I  will  lead  this  life  no  longer. 
I  am  a  wretched  being,  cut  off  from  everything  that  makes  life  tolerable.  I  have 
been  under  a  Taboo  in  that  infernal  scoundrel's  service.  Give  me  back  ni}-  wife, 
give  me  back  my  family,  substitute  Micawber  for  the  petty  wretch  who  walks  about 
in  the  boots  at  present  on  my  feet,  and  call  upon  me  to  swallow  a  sword  to-morrow, 
and  I  '11  do  it.     With  an  appetite  !  ' 

I  never  saw  a  man  so  hot  in  my  life.  I  tried  to  calm  him,  that  we  might  come  to 
something  rational  ;   but  he  got  hotter  and  hotter,  and  wouldn't  hear  a  word. 

'  I  'II  put  my  hand  in  no  man's  hand,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  gasping,  pulfing,  and 
sobbing,  to  that  degree  that  he  was  like  a  man  fighting  with  cold  water,  '  imtil  I  have 
— blown  to  fragments — the — a — detestable — serpent — Heep  !  I  'II  partake  of  no 
one's  hospitality,  until  I  have — a — moved  Mount  Vesuvius — to  eruption — on — a — - 
the  abandoned  rascal — Heep  !  Refreshment — a — underneath  this  roof^particularly 
punch — would — a — choke  me — unless — I  had — previously— choked  the  eyes — out 
of  the  head — a — of — interminable  cheat,  and  liar — Heep  !  I — a — I  'II  know  nobody 
— and — a — say  nothing — and — a — live  nowhere — until  I  have  crushed — to — a — 
undiscoverable  atoms — the — transcendent  and  immortal  hypocrite  and  perjurer — 
Heep  ! ' 

I  really  had  some  fear  of  Mr.  Micawbcr's  dying  on  the  spot.  The  manner  in 
which  he  struggled  through  these  inarticulate  sentences,  and,  whenever  he  found 
himself  getting  near  the  name  of  Heep,  fought  his  way  on  to  it,  dashed  at  it  in  a 
fainting  state,  and  brought  it  out  with  a  vehemence  little  less  than  marvellous,  was 
frightful  ;  but  now,  when  he  sank  into  a  chair,  steaming,  and  looked  at  us,  with  every 
possible  colour  in  his  face  that  had  no  business  there,  and  an  endless  procession  of 
lumps  following  one  another  in  hot  haste  up  his  throat,  whence  they  seemed  to  shoot 
into  his  forehead,  he  had  the  appearance  of  being  in  the  last  extremity.  I  would  have 
gone  to  his  assistance,  but  he  waved  me  off,  and  wouldn't  hear  a  word. 

'  No,  Copperfield  ! — No  communication — a — until — Miss  Wiekfield — a — redress 
from  wrongs  inflicted  by  consimimate  scoundrel — Heep  !  '  (I  am  quite  convinced 
he  could  not  have  uttered  three  words,  but  for  the  amazing  energj'  with  which  this 
word  inspired  him  when  he  felt  it  coming.)  '  Inviolable  secret — a — from  the  whole 
world — a — no  exceptions — this  day  week — a — at  breakfast  time — a — everybody 
present — including  aunt — a — and  extremely  friendly  gentleman — to  be  at  the  hotel 
at  Canterbury — a — where — Mrs.  Micawber  and  myself — Auld  Lang  Syne  in  chorus 
— and — a — will  expose  intolerable  ruffian — Heep  !  No  more  to  say — a— or  listen 
to  persuasion — go  immediately — not  capable — a — bear  society — upon  the  track  of 
devoted  and  doomed  traitor — Heep  !  ' 

With  this  last  repetition  of  the  magic  word  that  had  kept  him  going  at  all,  and 


464  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

in  which  he  surpassed  all  his  previous  efforts,  Mr.  Micawber  rushed  out  of  the  house  ; 
leaving  us  in  a  state  of  excitement,  hope,  and  wonder,  that  reduced  us  to  a  condition 
little  better  than  his  own.  But  even  then  his  passion  for  writing  letters  was  too 
strong  to  be  resisted  ;  for  while  we  were  yet  in  the  height  of  our  excitement,  hope, 
and  wonder,  the  following  pastoral  note  was  brought  to  me  from  a  neighbouring 
tavern,  at  which  he  had  called  to  write  it  : — 

'  Most  secret  and  confidential. 

'  My  dear  Sir, 

'  I  beg  to  be  allowed  to  convey,  through  you,  my  apologies  to  your 
excellent  aunt  for  my  late  excitement.  An  explosion  of  a  smouldering  volcano  long 
suppressed,  was  the  result  of  an  internal  contest  more  easily  conceived  than  described. 

'  I  trust  I  rendered  tolerably  intelligible  my  appointment  for  the  morning  of  this 
day  week,  at  the  house  of  public  entertainment  at  Canterbury,  where  Mrs.  Micawber 
and  myself  had  once  the  honour  of  uniting  our  voices  to  yours,  in  the  well-known 
strain  of  the  Immortal  exciseman  nurtured  beyond  the  Tweed. 

'  The  duty  done,  and  act  of  reparation  performed,  which  can  alone  enable  me  to 
contemplate  my  fellow-mortal,  I  shall  be  known  no  more.  I  shall  simply  require 
to  be  deposited  in  that  place  of  universal  resort,  where 

' "  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep," 

'  — With  the  plain  Inscription, 

'  WiLKiNS  Micawber.' 


CHAPTER    L 

MR.    PEGGOTTY's    dream    COMES    TRUE 

BY  this  time,  some  months  had  passed,  since  our  interview  on  the  bank 
of  the  river  with  Martha.  I  had  never  seen  her  since,  but  she  had 
communicated  with  Mr.  Peggotty  on  several  occasions.  Nothing  had 
come  of  her  zealous  intervention  ;  nor  could  I  infer,  from  what  he  told 
me,  that  any  clue  had  ever  been  obtained,  for  a  moment,  to  Emily's  fate.  I 
confess  that  I  began  to  despair  of  her  recovery,  and  gradually  to  sink  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  belief  that  she  was  dead. 

His  conviction  remained  unchanged.  So  far  as  I  know — and  I  believe  his  honest 
heart  was  transparent  to  me — he  never  wavered  again,  in  his  solemn  certainty  of 
finding  her.  His  patience  never  tired.  And,  although  I  trembled  for  the  agony 
it  might  one  day  be  to  him  to  have  his  strong  assurance  shivered  at  a  blow,  there 
was  something  so  religious  in  it,  so  affectingly  expressive  of  its  anchor  being  in  the 
purest  depths  of  his  fine  nature,  that  the  respect  and  honour  in  which  I  held  him 
were  exalted  every  day. 

His  was  not  a  lazy  trustfulness  that  hoped,  and  did  no  more.  He  had  been 
a  man  of  sturdy  action  all  his  life,  and  he  knew  that  in  all  things  wherein  he  wanted 
help  he  must  do  his  own  part  faithfully,  and  help  himself.     I  have  known  him  set 


MR.    I>E(;(^0TTY\S   I>RI:AM  (J0MI:S  true  465 

out  in  the  nif,'Iit,  on  a  niisgivin;,'  lliut,  Llic  \\u,\il  niif,'ht  not  Ijc,  by  sonic  accident,  in  the 
window  of  the  old  hoat,  and  walk  to  Yarnioutii.  I  have  known  him,  on  reading 
something  in  llic  newspaper,  that  mif^ht  apply  to  her,  take  up  his  stick,  and  f,'o  forth 
on  a  journey  of  three  or  four  score  miles.  He  made  his  way  hy  sea  to  Naples,  and 
l)ack,  after  heariufr  the  narrative  to  which  Miss  Dartle  had  assisted  me.  All  his 
journeys  were  ruf^jTcdly  performed  ;  for  he  was  always  steadfast  in  a  purj)Ose  of  saving 
money  for  Emily's  sake,  when  she  should  be  found.  In  all  this  lonj,'  pursuit,  I  never 
heard  him  repine  ;    I  never  iicard  him  say  he  was  fatif^ued,  or  out  of  heart. 

Dora  had  often  seen  him  since  our  marriage,  and  was  quite  fond  of  him.  I  fancy 
his  figure  before  me  now,  standing  near  her  sofa,  witli  his  rough  cap  in  his  hand,  and 
the  blue  eyes  of  my  child-wife  raised,  with  a  timid  wonder,  to  his  face.  Sometimes 
of  an  evening,  about  twilight,  when  he  came  to  talk  with  me,  I  would  induce  him 
to  smoke  his  pipe  in  the  garden,  as  \\c  slowly  paced  to  and  fro  together  ;  and  then, 
the  picture  of  his  deserted  home,  and  the  comfortable  air  it  used  to  have  in  my  childish 
eyes  of  an  evening  when  the  lire  was  burning,  and  the  wind  moaning  round  it,  came 
most  vividly  into  my  mind. 

One  evening,  at  this  hour,  he  told  me  that  he  had  found  Martha  waiting  near 
his  lodging  on  the  preceding  night  when  he  came  out,  and  that  she  had  asked  him  not 
to  leave  London  on  any  account,  until  he  should  have  seen  her  again. 

'  Did  she  tell  you  why  ?  '    I  inquired. 

'  I  asked  her,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  replied,  '  but  it  is  but  few  words  as  she  ever  says, 
and  she  on'y  got  my  promise  and  so  went  away.' 

'  Did  she  say  when  you  might  expect  to  see  her  again  ?  '    I  demanded. 

'  No,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  returned,  drawing  his  hand  thoughtfully  down  his  face. 
'  I  asked  that  too  ;   but  it  was  more  (she  said)  than  she  could  tell.' 

As  I  had  long  forborne  to  encourage  him  with  hopes  that  hung  on  threads,  I 
made  no  other  comment  on  this  information  than  that  1  supposed  he  would  see  her 
soon.  Such  speculations  as  it  engendered  within  me  I  kept  to  myself,  and  those  were 
faint  enough. 

I  was  walking  alone  in  the  garden,  one  evening,  about  a  fortnight  afterwards. 
I  remember  that  evening  well.  It  was  the  second  in  Mr.  Micawber's  week  of  suspense. 
There  had  been  rain  all  day,  and  there  was  a  damp  feeling  in  the  air.  The  leaves 
were  thick  upon  the  trees,  and  heavy  with  wet ;  but  the  rain  had  ceased,  though  the 
sky  was  still  dark  ;  and  the  hopeful  birds  were  singing  cheerfully.  As  I  walked  to 
and  fro  in  the  garden,  and  the  twilight  began  to  close  around  me,  their  little  voices 
were  hushed  ;  and  that  peculiar  silence  which  belongs  to  such  an  evening  in  the 
country  when  the  lightest  trees  are  quite  still,  save  for  the  occasional  droppings  from 
their  boughs,  prevailed. 

There  was  a  little  green  i)erspeetive  of  trellis-work  and  ivy  at  the  side  of  our 
cottage,  through  which  I  could  see,  from  the  garden  where  I  was  walking,  into  the 
road  before  the  house.  I  happened  to  turn  my  eyes  towards  this  place,  as  I  was 
thinking  of  many  things  ;  and  I  saw  a  figure  beyond,  dressed  in  a  plain  cloak.  It 
was  bending  eagerly  towards  me,  and  beckoning. 

'  Martha  !  '   said  I,  going  to  it. 

'  Can  you  come  with  me  ?  '  she  inquired,  in  an  agitated  whisper.  '  I  have  been 
to  him,  and  he  is  not  at  home.  I  wrote  down  where  he  was  to  come,  and  left  it  on 
his  table  with  my  own  hand.  They  said  he  would  not  be  out  long.  I  have  tidings 
for  him.     Can  you  come  directly  ?  ' 


466  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

My  answer  was  to  pass  out  at  the  gate  immediately.  She  made  a  hasty  gesture 
with  her  hand,  as  if  to  entreat  my  patience  and  my  silence,  and  turned  towards 
London,  whence,  as  her  dress  betokened,  she  had  come  expeditiously  on  foot. 

I  asked  her  if  that  were  not  our  destination  ?  On  her  motioning  Yes,  with  the 
same  hasty  gesture  as  before,  I  stopped  an  empty  coach  that  was  coming  by,  and 
we  got  into  it.  When  I  asked  her  where  the  coachman  was  to  drive,  she  answered 
'  Anywhere  near  Golden  Square  !  And  quick  !  '  ■ — then  shrunk  into  a  corner,  with 
one  trembling  hand  before  her  face,  and  the  other  making  the  former  gesture,  as  if 
she  could  not  bear  a  voice. 

Now  much  disturbed,  and  dazzled  with  conflicting  gleams  of  hope  and  dread,  I 
looked  at  her  for  some  explanation.  But,  seeing  how  strongly  she  desired  to  remain 
quiet,  and  feeling  that  it  was  my  own  natural  inclination  too,  at  such  a  time,  I  did 
not  attempt  to  break  the  silence.  We  proceeded  without  a  word  being  spoken. 
Sometimes  she  glanced  out  of  the  window,  as  though  she  thought  we  were  going 
slowly,  though  indeed  we  were  going  fast  ;  but  otherwise  remained  exactly  as  at 
first. 

We  alighted  at  one  of  the  entrances  to  the  square  she  had  mentioned,  where  I 
directed  the  coach  to  wait,  not  knowing  but  that  we  might  have  some  occasion  for  it. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  hurried  me  on  to  one  of  the  sombre  streets,  of  which 
there  are  several  in  that  part,  where  the  houses  were  once  fair  dwellings  in  the  occupa- 
tion of  single  families,  but  have,  and  had,  long  degenerated  into  poor  lodgings  let 
off  in  rooms.  Entering  at  the  open  door  of  one  of  these,  and  releasing  my  arm,  she 
beckoned  me  to  follow  her  up  the  common  staircase,  which  was  like  a  tributary 
channel  to  the  street. 

The  house  swarmed  with  inmates.  As  we  went  up,  doors  of  rooms  were  opened 
and  people's  heads  put  out ;  and  we  passed  other  people  on  the  stairs,  who  were  coming 
down.  In  glancing  up  from  the  outside,  before  we  entered,  I  had  seen  women  and 
children  lolling  at  the  windows  over  flower-pots  ;  and  we  seemed  to  have  attracted 
their  curiosity,  for  these  were  principally  the  observers  who  looked  out  of  their  doors. 
It  was  a  broad  panelled  staircase,  with  massive  blaustrades  of  some  dark  wood  ; 
cornices  above  the  doors,  ornamented  with  carved  fruit  and  flowers  ;  and  broad 
seats  in  the  windows.  But  all  these  tokens  of  past  grandeur  were  miserably  decayed 
and  dirty  ;  rot,  damp,  and  age,  had  weakened  the  flooring,  which  in  many  places 
was  unsound  and  even  unsafe.  Some  attempts  had  been  made,  I  noticed,  to  infuse 
new  blood  into  this  dwindling  frame,  by  repairing  the  costly  old  woodwork  here  and 
there  with  common  deal  ;  but  it  was  like  the  marriage  of  a  reduced  old  noble  to  a 
plebeian  pauper,  and  each  party  to  the  ill-assorted  union  shrunk  away  from  the  other. 
Several  of  the  back-windows  on  the  staircase  had  been  darkened  or  wholly  blocked  up. 
In  those  that  remained,  there  was  scarcely  any  glass  ;  and,  through  the  crumbling 
frames  by  which  the  bad  air  seemed  always  to  come  in,  and  never  to  go  out,  I 
saw,  through  other  glassless  windows,  into  other  houses  in  a  similar  condition,  and 
looked  giddily  down  into  a  wretched  yard,  which  was  the  common  dust-heap  of 
the  mansion. 

We  proceeded  to  the  top-story  of  the  house.  Two  or  three  times,  by  the  way, 
I  thought  I  observed  in  the  indistinct  light  the  skirts  of  a  female  figure  going  up 
before  us.  As  we  turned  to  ascend  the  last  flight  of  stairs  between  us  and  the  roof, 
we  caught  a  full  view  of  this  figure  pausing  for  a  moment,  at  a  door.  Then  it  turned 
the  handle,  and  went  in. 


MR.  PE(;(;OTTY'S  DREAM  COMES  TRUR  407 

'  What 's  this  ?  '    said  Martha,  in  a  wliispcr.     '  She  has  gone  into  my  room.     I 
don't  know  her  !  ' 

/  knew  her.  I  had  recopnised  }icr  with  amazement,  for  Miss  Dartle. 
I  said  something  to  the  effect  that  it  was  a  lady  whom  I  had  seen  Ijefore,  in  a 
few  words,  to  my  conductress  ;  and  had  scarcely  done  so  when  we  heard  her  voice  in 
the  room,  though  not,  from  where  we  stood,  what  she  was  saying.  Martha,  with  an 
astonished  look,  repeated  her  former  action,  and  softly  led  me  up  the  stairs  ;  and 
then,  by  a  little  hack-door  which  seemed  to  have  no  lock,  and  wliicli  she  pushed  ojjcn 
with  a  touch,  into  a  small  empty  garret  with  a  low  sloping  roof  ;  little  better  than 
a  cupboard.  Between  this,  and  the  room  she  had  called  hers,  there  was  a  small 
door  of  communication,  standing  partly  open.  Here  we  stopped,  breathless,  with  our 
ascent,  and  she  placed  her  hand  lightly  on  my  lips.  I  could  only  see,  of  the  room 
beyond,  that  it  was  pretty  large  ;  that  there  was  a  bed  in  it ;  and  that  there  were 
some  common  pictures  of  ships  upon  the  walls.  I  could  not  see  Miss  Dartle,  or  the 
person  whom  we  had  heard  her  address.  Certainly,  my  companion  could  not,  for 
my  position  was  the  best. 

A  dead  silence  prevailed  for  some  moments.  Martha  kept  one  hand  on  my  lips, 
and  raised  the  other  in  a  listening  attitude. 

'  It  matters  little  to  me  her  not  being  at  home,'  said  Rosa  Dartle,  haughtily, 
'  I  know  nothing  of  her.     It  is  you  I  come  to  see.' 
'  Me  ?  '    replied  a  soft  voice. 

At  the  sound  of  it,  a  thrill  went  through  my  frame.     For  it  was  Emily's  ! 
'  Yes.'  returned  Miss  Dartle,  '  I  have  come  to  look  at  you.     What  ?     You  are 
not  ashamed  of  the  face  that  has  done  so  much  ?  ' 

The  resolute  and  unrelenting  hatred  of  her  tone,  its  cold  stern  sharpness  and 
its  mastered  rage,  presented  her  before  me,  as  if  I  had  seen  her  standing  in  the  light. 
I  saw  the  flashing  black  eyes,  and  the  passion-wasted  figure  ;  and  I  saw  the  scar, 
with  its  white  track  cutting  through  her  lips,  quivering  and  throbbing  as  she  spoke. 

'  I  have  come  to  see,'  she  said,  '  James  Steerforth's  fancy  ;  the  girl  who  ran 
away  with  him,  and  is  the  town-talk  of  the  commonest  people  of  her  native  place  ; 
the  bold,  flaunting,  practised  companion  of  persons  like  James  Steerforth.  I  want 
to  know  what  such  a  thing  is  like.' 

There  was  a  rustle,  as  if  the  unhappy  girl,  on  whom  she  heaped  these  taunts, 
ran  towards  the  door,  and  the  speaker  swiftly  interposed  herself  before  it.  It  was 
succeeded  by  a  moment's  pause. 

When  Miss  Dartle  spoke  again,  it  was  through  her  set  teeth,  and  with  a  stamp 
upon  the  ground. 

'  Stay  there  1  '  she  said,  '  or  I  'II  proclaim  you  to  the  house,  and  the  whole  street ! 
If  you  try  to  evade  me,  I  '11  stop  you,  if  it 's  by  the  hair,  and  raise  the  very  stones 
against  yon  !  ' 

A  frightened  murmur  was  the  only  reply  that  reached  my  ears.  A  silence 
succeeded.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Much  as  I  desired  to  put  an  end  to  the 
interview,  I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  present  myself  ;  that  it  was  for  ^fr.  Peggotty 
alone  to  see  her  and  recover  her.     Would  he  never  come  ?   I  thought,  impatiently. 

'  So  ! '  said  Rosa  Dartle,  with  a  contemptuous  laugh,  '  I  see  her  at  last  !  Why, 
he  was  a  poor  creature  to  be  taken  by  that  delicate  moek-modesty,  and  that  hanging 
head  I  ' 

'  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  spare  me  !  '    exclaimed  Emily.     '  ^Vhoeve^  you  are,  you 


468  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

know  my  pitiable  story,  and  for  Heaven's  sake  spare  me,  if  you  would  be  spared 
yourself  !  ' 

'  If  /  would  be  spared  !  '  returned  the  other  fiercely  ;  '  what  is  there  in  common 
between  its,  do  you  think  ?  ' 

'  Nothing  but  our  sex,'  said  Emily,  with  a  burst  of  tears. 

'  And  that,'  said  Rosa  Dartle,  '  is  so  strong  a  claim,  preferred  by  one  so  infamous, 
that  if  I  had  any  feeling  in  my  breast  but  scorn  and  abhorrence  of  you,  it  would 
freeze  it  up.     Our  sex  !     You  are  an  honour  to  our  sex  !  ' 

'  I  have  deserved  this,'  cried  Emily,  '  but  it 's  dreadful  !  Dear,  dear  lady,  think 
what  I  have  suffered,  and  how  I  am  fallen  !  Oh,  Martha,  come  back  !  Oh,  home, 
home  !  ' 

Miss  Dartle  placed  herself  in  a  chair,  within  view  of  the  door,  and  looked  down- 
ward, as  if  Emily  were  crouching  on  the  floor  before  her.  Being  now  between  me  and 
the  light,  I  could  see  her  curled  lip,  and  her  cruel  eyes  intently  fixed  on  one  place, 
with  a  greedy  triumph. 

'  Listen  to  what  I  say  !  '  she  said  ;  '  and  reserve  your  false  arts  for  your  dupes. 
Do  you  hope  to  move  me  by  your  tears  ?  No  more  than  you  could  charm  me  by  your 
smiles,  you  purchased  slave.' 

'  Oh,  have  some  mercy  on  me  !  '  cried  Emily.  '  Show  me  some  compassion,  or  I 
shall  die  mad  !  ' 

'  It  would  be  no  great  penance,'  said  Rosa  Dartle,  '  for  your  crimes.  Do  you 
know  what  you  have  done  ?     Do  you  ever  think  of  the  home  you  have  laid  waste  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  is  there  ever  night  or  day,  when  I  don't  think  of  it  ?  '  cried  Emily  ;  and  now 
I  could  just  see  her,  on  her  knees,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  her  pale  face  looking 
upward,  her  hands  wildly  clasped  and  held  out,  and  her  hair  streaming  about  her. 
'  Has  there  ever  been  a  single  minute,  waking  or  sleeping,  when  it  hasn't  been  before 
me,  just  as  it  used  to  be  in  the  lost  daj-s  when  I  turned  my  back  upon  it  for  ever  and 
for  ever  ?  Oh,  home,  home  !  Oh  dear,  dear  uncle,  if  you  ever  could  have  known  the 
agony  your  love  would  cause  me  when  I  fell  away  from  good,  you  never  would  have 
shown  it  to  me  so  constant,  much  as  you  felt  it  ;  but  would  have  been  angry  to  me, 
at  least  once  in  my  life,  that  I  might  have  had  some  comfort  !  I  have  none,  none,  no 
comfort  upon  earth,  for  all  of  them  were  always  fond  of  me  !  '  She  dropped  on  her 
face,  before  the  imperious  figure  in  the  chair,  with  an  imploring  effort  to  clasp  the 
skirt  of  her  dress. 

Rosa  Dartle  sat  looking  down  upon  her,  as  inflexible  as  a  figure  of  brass.  Her 
lips  were  tightly  compressed,  as  if  she  knew  that  she  must  keep  a  strong  constraint 
upon  herself — I  write  what  I  sincerely  believe — or  she  would  be  tempted  to  strike  the 
beautiful  form  with  her  foot.  I  saw  her,  distinctly,  and  the  whole  power  of  her  face 
and  character  seemed  forced  into  that  expi'ession.     Would  he  never  come  ? 

'  The  miserable  vanity  of  these  earth-worms  !  '  she  said,  when  she  had  so  far 
controlled  the  angry  heavings  of  her  breast,  that  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak. 
'  Your  home  !  Do  you  imagine  that  I  bestow  a  thought  on  it,  or  suppose  you  could 
do  any  harm  to  that  low  place,  which  money  would  not  pay  for,  and  handsomely  ? 
Your  home  !  You  were  a  part  of  the  trade  of  your  home,  and  were  bought  and  sold 
like  any  other  vendible  thing  your  people  dealt  in.' 

'  Oh  not  that  !  '  cried  Emily.  '  Say  anything  of  me  ;  but  don't  visit  my  disgrace 
and  shame,  more  than  I  have  done,  on  folks  who  arc  as  honourable  as  you  !  Have 
some  respect  for  them,  as  you  are  a  lady,  if  you  have  no  mercy  for  me.' 


MR.  PE(;!(;OTTY\S  DREAM  COMKS  TRUE  469 

'  I  speak,'  she  said,  not  deigning  to  take  any  heed  of  Uiis  apjjcal,  and  drawing 
away  her  dress  from  the  contamination  of  Emily's  touch,  '  I  speak  of  his  home — where 
I  live.  Here,'  she  said,  siretfhing  out  her  liand  with  her  oontfriiiptuoiis  laii(,'h,  awd 
looking  down  upon  the  prostrute  girl,  '  is  a  worthy  cause  of  division  between  lady- 
mother  and  gentleman-son  ;  of  grief  in  a  house  where  she  wouldn't  have  been  admitted 
as  a  kitehon-girl  ;  of  anger,  and  repining,  and  reproach.  This  piece  of  pollution, 
picked  up  from  the  waterside,  to  be  made  much  of  for  an  hour,  and  then  tossed  back 
to  her  original  place  !  ' 

'  No  !  no  1  '  cried  I'Imily,  clasping  her  hands  together.  '  Wlicn  he  first  came 
into  my  way — that  the  day  had  never  dawned  upon  me,  and  he  had  met  me  being 
carried  to  my  grave  ! — I  had  been  brought  up  as  virtuous  as  you  or  any  lady,  and 
was  going  to  be  the  wife  of  as  good  a  man  as  you  or  any  lady  in  the  world  can  ever 
marry.  If  you  live  in  his  home  and  know  him,  you  know,  perhaps,  what  his  jjower 
with  a  weak,  vain  girl  might  l)c.  I  don't  defend  myself,  but  I  know  well,  and  he 
knows  well,  or  he  will  know  when  he  comes  to  die,  and  his  mind  is  troubled  with  it, 
that  he  used  all  his  power  to  deceive  me,  and  that  I  believed  him,  trusted  him,  and 
loved  him  !  ' 

Rosa  Dartle  sprang  up  from  her  seat ;  recoiled  ;  and  in  recoiling  struck  at  her, 
with  a  face  of  such  malignity,  so  darkened  and  disfigured  by  passion,  that  I  had 
almost  thrown  myself  between  them.  The  blow,  which  had  no  aim,  fell  upon  the 
air.  As  she  now  stood  panting,  looking  at  her  with  the  utmost  detestation  that  she 
was  capable  of  expressing,  and  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  rage  and  scorn,  I 
thought  I  had  never  seen  such  a  sight,  and  never  could  see  such  another. 

'  You  love  him  ?  You  ?  '  she  cried,  with  her  clenched  hand,  quivering  as  if  it 
only  wanted  a  weapon  to  stab  the  object  of  her  wrath. 

Emily  had  shrunk  out  of  my  view.     There  was  no  reply. 

'  And  tell  that  to  me,''  she  added,  '  with  your  shameful  lips  ?  Why  don't  they 
whip  these  creatures  ?  If  I  could  order  it  to  be  done,  I  would  have  this  girl  whipped 
to  death.' 

And  so  she  would,  I  have  no  doubt.  I  would  not  have  trusted  her  with  the  rack 
itself,  while  that  furious  look  lasted. 

She  slowly,  very  slowly,  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  pointed  at  Emily  with  her  hand, 
as  if  she  were  a  sight  of  shame  for  gods  and  men. 

'  She  love  !  '  she  said.  '  That  carrion  !  And  he  ever  cared  for  her,  she  'd  tell 
me.     Ha,  ha  !     The  liars  that  these  traders  are  !  ' 

Her  mockery  was  worse  than  her  undisguised  rage.  Of  the  two,  I  would  have 
much  preferred  to  be  the  object  of  the  latter.  But,  when  she  suffered  it  to  break  loose, 
it  was  only  for  a  moment.  She  had  chained  it  up  again,  and  however  it  might  tear 
her  within,  she  subdued  it  to  herself. 

'  I  came  here,  you  pure  fountain  of  love,'  she  said,  '  to  see — as  I  began  by  telling 
you — what  such  a  thing  as  you  was  like.  I  was  curious.  I  am  satisfied.  Also  to 
tell  you,  that  you  had  best  seek  that  home  of  yours,  with  all  speed,  and  hide  your 
head  among  those  excellent  people  who  are  expecting  you,  and  whom  your  money 
will  console.  WTien  it 's  all  gone,  you  can  believe,  and  trust,  and  love  again,  you 
know  !  I  thought  you  a  broken  toy  that  had  lasted  its  time  ;  a  worthless  spangle 
that  was  tarnished,  and  thrown  away.  But,  finding  you  true  gold,  a  very  lady,  and 
an  ill-used  innocent,  with  a  fresh  heart  full  of  love  and  trustfulness — which  you  look 
like,  and  is  quite  consistent  with  your  story  ! — I  have  something  more  to  say.     Attend 


470  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

to  it ;    for  what  I  say  I  'U  do.     Do  you  hear  me,  you  fairy  spirit  ?     What  I  say,  I 
mean  to  do  !  ' 

Her  rage  got  the  better  of  her  again,  for  a  moment ;  but  it  passed  over  her  face 
Hke  a  spasm,  and  left  her  smiling. 

'  Hide  yourself,'  she  pursued,  '  if  not  at  home,  somewhere.  Let  it  be  somewhere 
beyond  reach  ;  in  some  obscure  life — or,  better  still,  in  some  obscure  death.  I  wonder, 
if  your  loving  heart  will  not  break,  you  have  found  no  way  of  helping  it  to  be  still ! 
I  have  heard  of  such  means  sometimes.     I  believe  they  may  be  easily  found.' 

A  low  crying,  on  the  part  of  Emily,  interrupted  her  here.  She  stopped,  and 
listened  to  it  as  if  it  were  music. 

'  I  am  of  a  strange  nature,  perhaps,'  Rosa  Dartle  went  on  ;  '  but  I  can't  breathe 
freely  in  the  air  you  breathe.  I  find  it  sickly.  Therefore,  I  will  have  it  cleaa-ed ;  I 
will  have  it  purified  of  you.  If  you  live  here  to-morrow,  I  '11  have  your  story  and 
your  character  proclaimed  on  the  common  stair.  There  are  decent  women  in  the 
house,  I  am  told  ;  and  it  is  a  pity  such  a  light  as  you  should  be  among  them,  and 
concealed.  If,  leaving  here,  you  seek  any  refuge  in  this  town  in  any  character  but 
your  true  one  (which  you  are  welcome  to  bear,  without  molestation  from  me),  the  same 
service  shall  be  done  you,  if  I  hear  of  your  retreat.  Being  assisted  by  a  gentleman 
who  not  long  ago  aspired  to  the  favour  of  your  hand,  I  am  sanguine  as  to  that.' 

Would  he  never,  never  come  ?  How  long  was  I  to  bear  this  ?  How  long  could 
I_  bear  it  ? 

'  Oh  me,  oh  me  !  '  exclaimed  the  wretched  Emily,  in  a  tone  that  might  have 
touched  the  hardest  heart,  I  should  have  thought ;  but  there  was  no  relenting  in 
Rosa  Dartle's  smile.     '  What,  what,  shall  I  do  ?  ' 

'  Do  ?  '  returned  the  other.  '  Live  happy  in  your  own  reflections  !  Consecrate 
your  existence  to  the  recollection  of  James  Steerforth's  tenderness — he  would  have 
made  you  his  serving-man's  wife,  would  he  not  ? — or  to  feeling  grateful  to  the  upright 
and  deserving  creature  who  would  have  taken  you  as  his  gift.  Or,  if  those  proud 
remembrances,  and  the  consciousness  of  your  own  virtues,  and  the  honourable  position 
to  which  they  have  raised  you  in  the  eyes  of  everything  that  wears  the  human  shape, 
will  not  sustain  you,  marry  that  good  man,  and  be  happy  in  his  condescension.  If 
this  will  not  do  either,  die  !  There  are  doorways  and  dust-heaps  for  such  deaths, 
and  such  despair — find  one,  and  take  yovu-  flight  to  Heaven  !  ' 

I  heard  a  distant  foot  upon  the  stairs.  I  knew  it,  I  was  certain.  It  was  his, 
thank  God ! 

She  moved  slowly  from  before  the  door  when  she  said  this,  and  passed  out  of  my 
sight. 

'  But  mark  !  '  she  added,  slowly  and  sternly,  opening  the  other  door  to  go  away, 
'  I  am  resolved,  for  reasons  that  I  have  and  hatreds  that  I  entertain,  to  cast  you  out, 
unless  you  withdraw  from  my  reach  altogether,  or  drop  your  pretty  mask.  This  is 
what  I  had  to  say  ;   and  what  I  say,  I  mean  to  do  !  ' 

The  foot  upon  the  stairs  came  nearer^ — nearer — passed  her  as  she  went  down — 
rushed  into  the  room  ! 

'  Uncle  1 ' 

A  fearful  cry  followed  the  word.  I  paused  a  moment,  and,  looking  in,  saw  him 
supporting  her  insensible  figure  in  his  arms.  He  gazed  for  a  few  seconds  in  the  face  ; 
then  stooped  to  kiss  it — oh,  how  tenderly  ! — and  draw  a  handkerchief  before  it. 

'  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  said,  in  a  low  tremulous  voice,  when  it  was  covered,  '  I  thank 


Tllh:  lii:(;iNNINC  OK  A   L0N(;ER  .journey        471 

my  Heav'nly  Father,  as  my  dream  's  come  true  !     1  thank  Ilim  hearty  for  having 
guided  of  me,  in  His  own  ways,  to  my  darling  !  ' 

With  those  words  he  took  lier  up  in  his  arms  ;  and,  with  tfic  veiled  f.ue  lying  on 
his  bosom,  and  addressed  towards  his  own,  earricd  her,  motionless  and  unconscious, 
down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER    LT 

TUE    BEGINNING    OF    A    LONGER    JOUJtNEV 

IT  was  yet  early  in  the  morning  of  the  following  day,  wlien,  as  I  was  walking  in 
my  garden  with  my  aunt  (who  took  little  other  exercise  now,  being  so  much  in 
attendance  on  my  dear  Dora),  I  was  told  that  Mr.  Peggotty  desired  to  speak 
with  me.  He  came  into  the  garden  to  meet  me  half-way,  on  my  going  towards 
the  gate  ;  and  bared  his  head  as  it  was  always  his  custom  to  do  when  he  saw  my  aunt, 
for  whom  he  had  a  high  respect.  I  had  been  telling  her  all  that  had  happened  over- 
night. Without  saying  a  word,  she  walked  up  with  a  cordial  face,  shook  hands  with 
him,  and  patted  him  on  the  arm.  It  was  so  expressively  done,  that  she  had  no 
need  to  say  a  word.  Mr.  Peggotty  understood  her  quite  as  well  as  if  she  had  said 
a  thousand. 

'  1  '11  go  in  now.  Trot,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  look  after  Little  Blossom,  who  will 
be  getting  up  presently.' 

'  Not  along  of  my  being  heer,  ma'am,  I  hope  ?  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  Unless 
my  wits  is  gone  a  bahd's  neezing  ' — by  which  Mr.  Peggotty  meant  to  say,  bird's- 
nesting — '  this  morning,  'tis  along  of  me  as  you  're  a  going  to  quit  us  ?  ' 

'  You  have  something  to  say,  my  good  friend,'  returned  my  aunt,  "  and  will  do 
better  without  me.' 

'  By  your  leave,  ma'am,'  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  I  should  take  it  kind  pervising 
you  doen't  mind  my  clicketten,  if  you  'd  bide  heer.' 

'  Would  you  ?  '   said  my  aunt,  Mith  short  good-nature.     '  Then  I  am  sure  I  will  !  ' 

So,  she  drew  her  arm  through  Mr.  Peggotty's,  and  walked  with  him  to  a  leafy 
little  summer-house  there  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  where  she  sat  down  on  a 
bench,  and  I  beside  her.  There  was  a  seat  for  Mr.  Peggotty  too,  but  he  preferred  to 
stand,  leaning  his  hand  on  the  small  rustic  table.  As  he  stood,  looking  at  his  cap  for 
a  little  while  before  beginning  to  speak,  I  could  not  help  observing  what  power  and 
force  of  character  his  sinewy  hand  expressed,  and  what  a  good  and  trusty  companion 
it  was  to  his  honest  brow  and  iron-grey  hair. 

'  I  took  my  dear  child  away  last  night,'  Mr.  Peggotty  began,  as  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  ours,  '  to  my  lodging,  where  I  have  a  long  time  been  expecting  of  her  and  preparing 
fur  her.  It  was  hours  afore  she  knowed  me  right ;  and  when  she  did,  she  kneeled 
down  at  my  feet,  and  kiender  said  to  me,  as  if  it  was  her  prayers,  how  it  all  come  to  be. 
You  may  believe  me,  when  I  heerd  her  voice,  as  I  had  heerd  at  home  so  plaj^ul — and 
see  her  humbled,  as  it  might  be  in  the  dust  our  Saviour  wrote  in  with  his  blessed  hand — 
I  felt  a  wownd  go  to  my  'art,  in  the  midst  of  all  its  thankfulness.' 

He  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  face,  without  any  pretence  of  concealing  whj' ;  and 
then  cleared  his  voice. 


472  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  It  warn't  for  long  as  I  felt  that ;  for  she  was  found.  I  had  on'y  to  think  as  she 
was  found,  and  it  was  gone.  I  doen't  know  why  I  do  so  much  as  mention  of  it  now, 
I  'm  sure.  I  didn't  have  it  in  my  mind  a  minute  ago,  to  say  a  word  about  myself  ; 
but  it  come  up  so  nat'ral,  that  I  yielded  to  it  afore  I  was  aweer.' 

'  You  are  a  self-denying  soul,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  will  have  your  reward.' 

Mr.  Peggotty,  with  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  playing  athwart  his  face,  made  a 
surprised  inclination  of  the  head  towards  my  aunt,  as  an  acknowledgment  of  her  good 
opinion  ;   then,  took  up  the  thread  he  had  relinquished. 

'  When  my  Em'ly  took  flight,'  he  said,  in  stern  wrath  for  the  moment,  '  from 
the  house  wheer  she  was  made  a  pris'ner  by  that  theer  spotted  snake  as  Mas'r  Davy 
see — and  his  story's  trew,  and  may  God  confound  him  ! — she  took  flight  in  the  night. 
It  was  a  dark  night,  with  a  many  stars  a  shining.  She  was  wild.  She  ran  along  the 
sea  beach,  believing  the  old  boat  was  theer  ;  and  calling  out  to  us  to  turn  away  our 
faces,  for  she  was  a  coming  b}'.  She  heerd  herself  a  crying  out,  like  as  if  it  was  another 
person  ;  and  cut  herself  on  them  sharp-pinted  stones  and  rocks,  and  felt  it  no  more 
than  if  she  had  been  rock  herself.  Ever  so  fur  she  run,  and  there  was  fire  afore  her 
eyes,  and  roarings  in  her  ears.  Of  a  sudden — or  so  she  thowt,  you  unnerstand — the 
day  broke,  wet  and  windy,  and  she  was  lying  b'low  a  heap  of  stone  upon  the  shore, 
and  a  woman  was  a  speaking  to  her,  saying,  in  the  language  of  that  country,  what  was 
it  as  had  gone  so  much  amiss  ?  ' 

He  saw  everything  he  related.  It  passed  before  him,  as  he  spoke,  so  vividly, 
that,  in  the  intensity  of  his  earnestness,  he  presented  what  he  described  to  me,  with 
greater  distinctness  than  I  can  express.  I  can  hardly  believe,  writing  now  long  after- 
wards, but  that  I  was  actually  present  in  these  scenes  ;  they  are  impressed  upon  me 
with  such  an  astonishing  air  of  fidelity. 

'  As  Em'ly's  eyes — which  was  heavy — see  this  woman  better,'  Mr.  Peggotty 
went  on,  '  she  know'd  as  she  was  one  of  them  as  she  had  often  talked  to  on  the  beach. 
Fur,  though  she  had  run  (as  I  have  said)  ever  so  fur  in  the  night,  she  had  oftentimes 
wandered  long  ways,  partly  afoot,  partly  in  boats  and  carriages,  and  know'd  all  that 
country,  'long  the  coast,  miles  and  miles.  She  hadn't  no  children  of  her  own,  this 
woman,  being  a  young  wife  ;  but  she  was  a  looking  to  have  one  afore  long.  And  may 
my  prayers  go  up  to  Heaven  that  'twill  be  a  happ'ness  to  her,  and  a  comfort,  and  a 
honour-,  all  her  life  !  May  it  love  her  and  be  dootiful  to  her,  in  her  old  age  ;  helpful 
of  her  at  the  last ;   a  angel  to  her  heer,  and  heerafter  !  ' 

'  Amen  !  '    said  my  aunt. 

'  She  had  been  summat  timorous  and  down,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  and  had  sat, 
at  first,  a  little  way  off,  at  her  spinning,  or  such  work  as  it  was,  when  Em'ly  talked  to 
the  children.  But  Em'ly  had  took  notice  of  her,  and  had  gone  and  spoke  to  her ; 
and  as  the  young  woman  was  partial  to  the  children  herself,  they  had  soon  made 
friends.  Sermuchser,  that  when  Em'ly  went  that  way,  she  always  giv  Em'ly  flowers. 
This  was  her  as  now  asked  what  it  was  that  had  gone  so  much  amiss.  Em'ly  told 
her,  and  she — took  her  home.  She  did  indeed.  She  took  her  home,'  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  covering  his  face. 

He  was  more  affected  by  this  act  of  kindness,  than  I  had  ever  seen  him  affected 
by  anything  since  the  night  she  went  away.  My  aunt  and  I  did  not  attempt  to 
disturb  him. 

'  It  was  a  little  cottage,  you  may  suppose,'  he  said,  presently,  '  but  she  found 
space  for  Em'ly  in  it, — her  husband  was  away  at  sea, — and  she  kep  it  secret,  and 


THE  JiEGlNNINC  OF  A    LONGER  .lOURNEV        473 

prevailed  upon  siurh  neighbours  as  she  hafl  (they  was  not  many  near)  to  keep  it  secret 
too.  Em'ly  was  took  l)acl  with  fever,  and  what  is  very  strarifjc  to  rne  is, — maybe  'tis 
not  so  strange  to  scholars,  the  language  of  that  country  went  out  of  her  head,  and 
she  could  only  speak  her  own,  that  no  one  understood.  She  recollects,  as  if  she  had 
(l)-eamed  it,  that  she  lay  Ihcrc,  always  a  tiilkini,'  her  <^wn  tongue,  always  believing 
as  the  old  boat  was  round  the  next  pint,  in  the  bay,  and  begging  and  imploring  of 
'em  to  send  theer  and  tell  how  she  was  <lying,  and  bring  back  a  message  of  forgive- 
ness, if  it  was  on'y  a  wured.  A'most  the  whole  time,  she  thowt, — now  that  him  as  I 
made  mention  on  just  now  was  lurking  for  her  unnerneath  the  winder  :  now  that  him 
as  had  brought  her  to  this  was  in  the  room, — and  cried  to  the  good  young  woman 
not  to  give  her  up,  and  know'd  at  the  same  time,  that  she  couldn't  unnerstand,  and 
dreaded  that  she  must  be  took  away.  Likewise  the  fire  was  afore  her  eyes,  and  the 
roarings  in  her  ears  ;  and  there  was  no  to-day,  nor  yesterday,  nor  yet  to-morrow  ; 
but  everything  in  her  life  as  ever  had  been,  or  as  ever  could  be,  and  everything  as  never 
had  been,  and  as  never  could  be,  was  a  crowding  on  her  all  at  once,  and  nothing  clear 
nor  welcome,  and  yet  she  sang  and  laughed  about  it  !  How  long  this  lasted,  I  doen't 
know  ;  })ut  then  there  come  a  sleep  ;  and  in  that  sleep,  from  being  a  many  times 
stronger  than  her  own  self,  she  fell  into  the  weakness  of  the  littlest  child.' 

Here  he  stopped,  as  if  for  relief  from  the  terrors  of  his  own  description.  After 
being  silent  for  a  few  moments,  he  pursued  his  story. 

'  It  was  a  pleasant  arternoon  when  she  awoke  ;  and  so  quiet,  that  there  warn't 
a  sound  but  the  rippling  of  that  blue  sea  without  a  tide,  upon  the  shore.  It  was  her 
belief,  at  first,  that  she  was  at  home  upon  a  Sunday  morning  ;  but,  the  vine  leaves 
as  she  see  at  the  winder,  and  the  hills  beyond,  warn't  home,  and  contradicted  of  her. 
Then,  come  in  her  friend,  to  watch  alongside  of  her  bed  ;  and  then  she  know'd  as  the 
old  boat  warn't  round  that  next  pint  in  the  bay  no  more,  but  was  fur  off ;  and  know'd 
where  she  was,  and  why  ;  and  broke  out  a  crying  on  that  good  young  woman's  bosom, 
wheer  I  hope  her  baby  is  a  lying  now,  a  cheering  of  her  with  its  pretty  eyes  !  ' 

He  could  not  speak  of  this  good  friend  of  Emily's  without  a  flow  of  tears.  It 
was  in  vain  to  try.     He  broke  down  again,  endeavouring  to  bless  her  ! 

'  That  done  my  Em'ly  good,'  he  resumed,  after  such  emotion  as  I  could  not 
behold  without  sharing  in  ;  and  as  to  my  aunt,  she  wept  with  all  her  heart ;  '  that 
done  Em'ly  good,  and  she  begun  to  mend.  But,  the  language  of  that  country  was 
quite  gone  from  her,  and  she  was  forced  to  make  signs.  So  she  went  on,  getting 
better  from  day  to  day,  slow,  but  sure,  and  trying  to  learn  the  names  of  common 
things — names  as  she  seemed  never  to  have  heerd  in  all  her  life — till  one  evening 
come,  when  she  was  a  setting  at  her  window,  looking  at  a  little  girl  at  play  upon  the 
beach.  And  of  a  sudden  this  child  held  out  her  hand,  and  said,  what  would  be  in 
English,  "  Fisherman's  daughter,  here  's'  a  shell  !  " — for  you  are  to  unnerstand  that 
they  used  at  first  to  call  her  "  Pretty  lady,"  as  the  general  way  in  that  country  is,  and 
that  she  had  taught  'cm  to  call  her  "  Fisherman's  daughter,"  instead.  The  child  says 
of  a  sudden,  "  Fisherman's  daughter,  here  's  a  shell  !  "  Then  Em'ly  unnerstands 
her  ;    and  she  answers,  bursting  out  a  crying  ;    and  it  all  comes  back  ! 

'  When  Em'ly  got  strong  again,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  after  another  short  interval 
of  silence,  '  she  casts  about  to  leave  that  good  young  creetur,  and  get  to  her  own 
country.  The  husband  was  come  home,  then  ;  and  the  two  together  put  her  aboard 
a  small  trader  bound  to  Leghorn,  and  from  that  to  France.  She  had  a  little  money, 
but  it  was  less  than  little  as  they  would  take  for  all  they  done.     I  'm  a'most  glad  on 


474  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

it,  though  they  was  so  poor  !  What  they  done,  is  laid  up  wheer  neither  moth  nor 
rust  doth  corrupt,  and  wheer  thieves  do  not  break  through  nor  steal.  Mas'r  Davy, 
it  '11  outlast  all  the  treasure  in  the  wureld. 

'  Em'ly  got  to  France,  and  took  service  to  wait  on  travelling  ladies  at  a  inn  in 
the  port.  Theer,  theer  come,  one  day,  that  snake.- — Let  him  never  come  nigh  me. 
I  doen't  know  what  hurt  I  might  do  him  ! — Soon  as  she  see  him,  without  him  seeing 
her,  all  her  fear  and  wiidness  returned  upon  her,  and  she  fled  afore  the  very  breath  he 
draw'd.     She  come  to  England,  and  was  set  ashore  at  Dover. 

'  I  doen't  know,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  for  sure,  when  her  'art  begun  to  fail  her  ; 
but  all  the  way  to  England  she  had  thowt  to  come  to  her  dear  home.  Soon  as  she 
got  to  England  she  turned  her  face  tow'rds  it.  But,  fear  of  not  being  forgiv,  fear  of 
being  pinted  at,  fear  of  some  of  us  being  dead  along  of  her,  fear  of  many  things,  turned 
her  from  it,  kiender  by  force,  upon  the  road  :  "  Uncle,  uncle,"  she  says  to  me,  "  the 
fear  of  not  being  worthy  to  do,  what  my  torn  and  bleeding  breast  so  longed  to  do, 
was  the  most  fright'ning  fear  of  all  !  I  turned  back,  when  my  'art  was  full  of  prayers 
that  I  might  crawl  to  the  old  doorstep,  in  the  night,  kiss  it,  lay  my  wicked  face  upon 
it,  and  theer  be  found  dead  in  the  morning." 

'  She  come,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  dropping  his  voice  to  an  awe-stricken  whisper, 
'  to  London.  She — as  had  never  seen  it  in  her  life — alone — without  a  penny — young 
— so  pretty — come  to  London.  A'most  the  moment  as  she  lighted  heer,  all  so  desolate, 
she  found  (as  she  believed)  a  friend  ;  a  decent  woman  as  spoke  to  her  about  the 
needlework  as  she  had  been  brought  up  to  do,  about  finding  plenty  of  it  fur  her,  about 
a  lodging  for  the  night,  and  making  secret  inquiration  concerning  of  me  and  all  at 
home,  to-morrow.  When  my  child,'  he  said  aloud,  and  with  an  energy  of  gratitude 
that  shook  him  from  head  to  foot,  '  stood  upon  the  brink  of  more  than  I  can  say  or 
think  on — Martha,  trew  to  her  promise,  saved  her  !  ' 

I  could  not  repress  a  cry  of  joy. 

'  Mas'r  Davy  !  '  he  said,  griping  my  hand  in  that  strong  hand  of  his,  '  it  was  you 
as  first  made  mention  of  her  to  me.  I  thank  'ee,  sir  !  She  was  arnest.  She  had 
know'd  of  her  bitter  knowledge  wheer  to  watch  and  what  to  do.  She  had  done  it. 
And  the  Lord  was  above  all  !  She  come,  white  and  hurried,  upon  Em'ly  in  her  sleep. 
She  says  to  her,  "  Rise  up  from  worse  than  death,  and  come  with  me  !  "  Them 
belonging  to  the  house  would  have  stopped  her,  but  they  might  as  soon  have  stopped 
the  sea.  "  Stand  away  from  me,"  she  says,  "  I  am  a  ghost  that  calls  her  from  beside 
her  open  grave  !  "  She  told  Em'ly  she  had  seen  me,  and  know'd  I  loved  her,  and  forgive 
her.  She  wrapped  her,  hasty,  in  her  clothes.  She  took  her,  faint  and  trembling, 
on  her  arm.  She  heeded  no  more  what  they  said,  than  if  she  had  had  no  ears.  She 
walked  among  'em  with  my  child,  minding  only  her  ;  and  brought  her  safe  out,  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  from  that  black  pit  of  ruin  ! 

'  She  attended  on  Em'ly,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  who  had  released  my  hand,  and  put 
his  own  hand  on  his  heaving  chest ;  '  she  attended  to  my  Em'ly,  lying  wearied  out, 
and  wandering  betwixt  whiles,  till  late  next  day.  Then  she  went  in  search  of  me  ; 
then  in  search  of  you,  Mas'r  Davy.  She  didn't  tell  Em'ly  what  she  come  out  fur,  lest 
her  'art  should  fail,  and  she  should  think  of  hiding  of  herself.  How  the  cruel  lady 
know'd  of  her  being  theer,  I  can't  say.  Whether  him  as  I  have  spoke  so  much  of, 
chanced  to  see  'em  going  theer,  or  whether  (which  is  most  like  to  my  thinking)  he  had 
heerd  it  from  the  woman,  I  doen't  greatly  ask  myself.     My  niece  is  found. 

'  All  night  long,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  we  have  been  together,  Em'ly  and  me. 


THE  BE(;iNNIN(J  OF  A  LON(;i<:it  JOURNEY        475 

'Tis  little  (considorin/j;  the  time)  us  she  hus  said,  in  wurcds,  through  them  broken- 
hearted tears  ;  'tis  less  as  I  have  seen  of  her  dear  face,  as  grow'd  into  a  woman's  at 
my  hearth.  But,  all  night  long,  her  arms  has  been  about  my  neck  ;  and  her  head  has 
laid  hccr  ;   and  we  knows  full  well,  as  we  can  put  our  trust  in  one  another  ever  more.' 

He  ceased  to  speak,  and  his  hand  upon  the  table  rested  there  in  perfect  repose, 
with  a  resolution  in  it  that  might  have  conquered  lions. 

'  It  was  a  gleam  of  light  upon  me.  Trot,'  said  my  aunt,  drying  her  eyes,  '  when 
I  formed  the  resolution  of  being  godmother  to  your  sister  Betsey  Trotwood,  who 
disappointed  nic  ;  but,  next  to  that,  hardly  anything  would  have  given  me  greater 
pleasure,  than  to  be  godmother  to  that  good  young  creature's  baby  !  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty  nodded  his  understanding  of  my  aunt's  feelings,  but  could  not 
trust  himself  with  any  verbal  reference  to  the  subject  of  her  commendation.  We  all 
remained  silent,  and  occupied  with  our  own  reflections  (my  aunt  drying  her  eyes,  and 
now  sobbing  convulsively,  and  now  laughing  and  calling  herself  a  fool)  ;   until  I  spoke. 

'  You  have  quite  made  up  your  mind,'  said  I  to  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  as  to  the  future, 
good  friend  ?     I  need  scarcely  ask  you.' 

'  Quite,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  returned  ;  '  and  told  Em'ly.  Theer  's  mighty  countries, 
fur  from  heer.     Our  future  life  lays  over  the  sea.' 

'  They  will  emigrate  together,  aunt,'  said  I. 

'  Yes  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  hojieful  smile.  '  No  one  can't  reproach  my 
darling  in  Australia.     We  will  begin  a  new  life  over  theer  !  ' 

I  asked  him  if  he  yet  proposed  to  himself  any  time  for  going  away. 

'  I  was  down  at  the  Docks  early  this  morning,  sir,'  he  returned,  '  to  get  information 
concerning  of  them  ships.  In  about  six  weeks  or  two  months  from  now  there  '11  be 
one  sailing — I  see  her  this  morning — went  aboard — and  we  shall  take  our  passage  in 
her.' 

'  Quite  alone  ?  '   I  asked. 

'  Aye,  Mas'r  Davy  !  '  he  returned.  '  My  sister,  you  see,  she  's  that  fond  of  you 
and  yourn,  and  that  accustomed  to  think  on'y  of  her  own  country,  that  it  wouldn't 
be  hardly  fair  to  let  her  go.  liesides  which,  theer  's  one  she  has  in  charge,  Mas'r 
Davy,  as  doen't  ought  to  be  forgot.' 

'  Poor  Ham  !  '    said  I. 

'  My  good  sister  takes  care  of  his  house,  you  see,  ma'am,  and  he  takes  kindly  to 
her,'  Mr.  Peggotty  explained  for  my  aunt's  better  information.  '  He  '11  set  and  talk 
to  her,  with  a  calm  spirit,  wen  it 's  like  he  couldn't  bring  himself  to  open  his  Hps  to 
another.  Poor  fellow  !  '  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  shaking  his  head,  '  theer  's  not  so  much 
left  him,  that  he  could  spare  the  little  as  he  has  !  ' 

'  And  Mrs.  Gummidge  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Well,  I  've  had  a  mort  of  con-sideration,  I  do  tell  you,'  returned  Mr.  Peggotty, 
with  a  perplexed  look  which  gradually  cleared  as  he  went  on,  '  concerning  of  Missis 
Gummidge.  You  see,  wen  Missis  Gummidge  falls  a  thinking  of  the  old  'un,  she  an't 
what  you  may  call  good  company.  Betwixt  you  and  me,  Mas'r  Davy — and  you, 
ma'am— wen  Mrs.  Gummidge  takes  to  wimicking,' — our  old  county  word  for  crying, 
— '  she  's  liable  to  be  considered  to  be,  by  them  as  didn't  know  the  old  'un,  peevish-like. 
Now  I  did  know  the  old  'un,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  and  I  know'd  his  merits,  so  I  unner- 
stan'  her  ;   but  'tan't  entirely  so,  you  see,  with  others — nat'rally  can't  be  !  ' 

My  aunt  and  I  both  acquiesced. 

'  Wheerby,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  my  sister  might — I  doen't  say  she  would,  but 


476  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

might — find  Missis  Gummidge  give  her  a  leetle  trouble  now-and-again.  Theerfur 
'tan't  my  intentions  to  moor  Missis  Gummidge  'long  with  them,  but  to  find  a  Bein' 
fur  her  wheer  she  can  fisherate  for  herself.'  (A  Bein'  signifies,  in  that  dialect,  a  home, 
and  to  fisherate  is  to  provide.)  '  Fur  which  purpose,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  I  means 
to  make  her  a  'lowance  afore  I  go,  as  '11  leave  her  pretty  comfortable.  She  's  the 
faithfullest  of  creeturs.  'Tan't  to  be  expected,  of  course,  at  her  time  of  life,  and  being 
lone  and  lorn,  as  the  good  old  mawther  is  to  be  knocked  about  aboardship,  and  in 
the  woods  and  wilds  of  a  new  and  fur-away  country.  So  that 's  what  I  "m  a  going  to 
do  with  her.' 

He  forgot  nobody.     He  thought  of  everybody's  claims  and  strivings,  but  his  own. 

'  Em'ly,'  he  continued,  '  will  keep  along  with  me — poor  child,  she  's  sore  in  need 
of  peace  and  rest ! — until  such  time  as  we  goes  upon  our  voyage.  She  '11  work  at 
them  clothes,  as  must  be  made  ;  and  I  hope  her  troubles  will  begin  to  seem  longer 
ago  than  they  was,  wen  she  finds  herself  once  more  by  her  rough  but  loving  uncle.' 

My  aunt  nodded  confirmation  of  this  hope,  and  imparted  great  satisfaction  to 
Mr.  Peggotty. 

'  Theer  's  one  thing  furder,  Mas'r  Davy,'  said  he,  putting  his  hand  in  his  breast- 
pocket, and  gravely  taking  out  the  little  paper  bundle  I  had  seen  before,  which  he 
unrolled  on  the  table.  '  Theer  's  these  heer  bank-notes — fifty  pound,  and  ten.  To 
them  I  wish  to  add  the  money  as  she  come  away  with.  I  've  asked  her  about  that 
(but  not  saying  why),  and  have  added  of  it  up  ;  I  an't  a  scholar.  Would  you  be  so 
kind  as  see  how  'tis  ?  ' 

He  handed  me,  apologetically  for  his  scholarship,  a  piece  of  paper,  and  observed 
me  while  I  looked  it  over.     It  was  quite  right. 

'  Thank  'ee,  sir,'  he  said,  taking  it  back.  '  This  money,  if  jou  doen't  see  objec- 
tions, ^las'r  Davy,  I  shall  put  up  jest  afore  I  go,  in  a  cover  d'rected  to  him  ;  and  put 
that  up  in  another,  d'rected  to  his  mother.  I  shall  tell  her,  in  no  more  wureds  than  I 
speak  to  you,  what  it 's  the  price  on  ;  and  that  I  'm  gone,  and  past  receiving  of  it  back.' 

I  told  him  that  I  thought  it  would  be  right  to  do  so — that  I  was  thoroughly  con- 
vinced it  would  be,  since  he  felt  it  to  be  right. 

'  I  said  that  theer  was  on'y  one  thing  furder,'  he  proceeded  with  a  grave  smile, 
when  he  had  made  up  his  little  bundle  again,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket ;  '  but  theer  was 
two.  I  warn't  sure  in  my  mind,  wen  I  come  out  this  morning,  as  I  could  go  and 
break  to  Ham,  of  my  own  self,  what  had  so  thankfully  happened.  So  I  writ  a  letter 
while  I  was  out,  and  put  it  in  the  post-office,  telling  of  'em  how  all  was  as  'tis,  and 
that  I  should  come  down  to-morrow  to  unload  my  mind  of  what  little  needs  a  doing  of 
down  theer,  and,  most-like,  take  my  farewell  leave  of  Yarmouth.' 

'  And  do  you  wish  me  to  go  with  you  ?  '  said  I,  seeing  that  he  left  something 
unsaid. 

'  If  you  could  do  me  that  kind  favour,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  replied,  '  I  know  the  sight 
on  you  would  cheer  'em  up  a  bit.' 

My  little  Dora  being  in  good  spirits,  and  very  desirous  that  I  should  go— as  I 
found  on  talking  it  over  with  her — I  readily  pledged  myself  to  accompany  him  in 
accordance  with  his  wish.  Next  morning,  consequently,  we  were  on  the  Yarmouth 
coach,  and  again  travelling  over  the  old  ground. 

As  we  passed  along  the  familiar  street  at  night^ — Mr.  Peggotty,  in  despite  of  all 
my  remonstrances,  carrying  my  bag — I  glanced  into  Omer  and  Joram's  .shop,  and 
saw  my  old  friend  Mr.  Omer  there,  smoking  his  pipe.     I  felt  reluctant  to  be  present. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  A   LONGER  JOURNEY        Ml 

when  Mr.  Peggotty  first  met  his  sister  and  Hum  ;    and  made  Mr.  Omer  my  excuse  for 
lingering  behind. 

'  How  Is  Mr.  Omer  after  this  long  time  ?  '   said  I,  going  in. 

He  fanned  away  tlie  smoke  of  his  pipe,  tli.it  ho  rniglit  get  a  better  view  of  me, 
and  soon  recognised  iiic  with  great  delight. 

'  I  should  get  uj),  sir,  to  acknowledge  such  an  honour  as  this  visit,'  said  he,  '  only 

my  limbs  are  rather  out  of  sorts,  and  I  am  wheeled  about.      With  the  exception  of  my 

limbs  and  my  breal  h,  hows'ever,  I  am  as  hearty  as  a  man  can  be,  I  'm  thankful  to  say.' 

I  congratulated  him  on  his  contented  looks  and  his  good  spirits,  and  saw,  now, 

that  his  easy-chair  went  on  wheels. 

'  It 's  an  ingenious  thing,  ain't  it  '!  '  he  inquired,  following  the  direction  of  my 
glance,  and  polishing  the  elbow  with  his  arm.  '  It  runs  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  tracks 
as  true  as  a  mail-coach.  HIess  you,  my  little  Minnie — my  grand-daughter  you  know, 
Minnie's  child — puts  her  little  strength  against  the  back,  gives  it  a  shove,  and  away 
we  go,  as  clever  and  merry  as  ever  you  see  anything  !  And  I  tell  you  what — it 's  a 
most  uncommon  chair  to  smoke  a  pipe  in.' 

I  never  saw  such  a  good  old  fellow  to  make  the  best  of  a  thing,  and  find  out  the 
enjoyment  of  it,  as  Mr.  Omer.  He  was  as  radiant,  as  if  his  chair,  his  asthma,  and  the 
failure  of  his  limbs,  were  the  various  branches  of  a  great  invention  for  enhancing  the 
luxury  of  a  pipe. 

'  I  see  more  of  the  world,  I  can  assure  you,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  '  in  this  chair,  than  ever 
I  see  out  of  it.  You  'd  be  surprised  at  the  number  of  people  that  looks  in  of  a  day  to 
have  a  chat.  You  really  would.  There  's  twice  as  much  in  the  newspaper,  since 
I  've  taken  to  this  chair,  as  there  used  to  be.  As  to  general  reading,  dear  me,  what  a 
lot  of  it  I  do  get  through  !  That 's  what  I  feel  so  strong,  you  know  !  If  it  had  been 
my  eyes,  what  should  I  have  done  ?  If  it  had  been  my  ears,  what  should  I  ha-\c  done  ? 
Being  my  limbs,  what  does  it  signify  ?  Why,  my  limbs  only  made  my  breath  shorter 
when  I  used  'em.  And  now,  if  I  want  to  go  out  into  the  street  or  down  to  the  sands, 
I  've  only  got  to  call  Dick,  Joram's  youngest  'prentice,  and  away  I  go  in  my  own 
carriage,  like  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London.' 

He  half  suffocated  himself  with  laughing  here. 

'  Lord  bless  you  !  '    said  Mr.  Omer,  resuming  his  pipe,  '  a  man  must  take  the 
fat  with  the  lean  ;  that  's  what  he  must  make  up  his  mind  to,  in  this  life.     Joram  does 
a  fine  business.     Ex-cellent  business  !  ' 
'  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  I. 

'  I  knew  you  would  be,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  And  Joram  and  Minnie  are  like 
valentines.     What  more  can  a  man  expect  ?     What 's  his  limbs  to  that  ?  ' 

His  supreme  contempt  for  his  own  limbs,  as  he  sat  smoking,  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest  oddities  I  have  ever  encountered. 

'  And  since  I  've  took  to  general  reading,  you  've  took  to  general  \\Titing,  eh, 
sir  ?  '  said  ^Ir.  Omer,  surveying  me  admiringly.  '  WTiat  a  lovely  work  that  was  of 
yours  !  What  expressions  in  it  !  I  read  it  every  word — every  word.  And  as  to 
feeling  sleepy  !     Not  at  all  !  ' 

I  laughingly  expressed  my  satisfaction,  but  I  must  confess  that  I  thought  this 
association  of  ideas  significant. 

'  I  give  you  my  word  and  honour,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  '  that  when  I  lay  that  book 
upon  the  table,  and  look  at  it  outside  ;  compact  in  three  separate  and  indi\\-idual 
wollumes — one,  two,  three  ;    I  am  as  proud  as  Punch  to  think  that  I  once  had  the 


478  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

honour  of  being  connected  vrith  your  family.  And  dear  me,  it 's  a  long  time  ago, 
now,  ain't  it  ?  Over  at  Blunderstone.  With  a  pretty  little  party  laid  along  with  the 
other  partj'.     And  you  quite  a  small  party  then,  j'ourself.     Dear,  dear  !  ' 

I  changed  the  subject  by  referring  to  Emily.  After  assuring  him  that  I  did  not 
forget  how  interested  he  had  always  been  in  her,  and  how  kindly  he  had  always  treated 
her,  I  gave  him  a  general  account  of  her  restoration  to  her  uncle  by  the  aid  of  Martha  ; 
which  I  knew  would  please  the  old  man.  He  listened  with  the  utmost  attention,  and 
said,  feelingly,  when  I  had  done — 

'  I  am  rejoiced  at  it,  sir  !  It 's  the  best  news  I  have  heard  for  many  a  day.  Dear, 
dear,  dear  !  And  what 's  going  to  be  undertook  for  that  unfortunate  young  woman, 
Martha,  now  ?  ' 

'  You  touch  a  point  that  my  thoughts  have  been  dwelling  on  since  yesterday,' 
said  I,  '  but  on  which  I  can  give  you  no  information  yet,  Mr.  Omer.  Mr.  Peggotty 
has  not  alluded  to  it,  and  I  have  a  delicacy  in  doing  so.  I  am  sure  he  has  not  forgotten 
it.     He  forgets  nothing  that  is  disinterested  and  good.' 

'  Because  you  know,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  taking  himself  up,  where  he  had  left  off, 
'  whatever  is  done,  I  should  wish  to  be  a  member  of.  Put  me  down  for  anything  you 
may  consider  right,  and  let  me  know.  I  never  could  think  the  girl  all  bad,  and  I  am 
glad  to  find  she  's  not.  So  will  my  daughter  Minnie  be.  Young  women  are  con- 
tradictory creatures  in  some  things- — her  mother  was  just  the  same  as  her — but  their 
hearts  are  soft  and  kind.  It 's  all  show  with  Minnie,  about  Martha.  VVhy  she  should 
consider  it  necessary  to  make  any  show,  I  don't  undertake  to  tell  you.  But  it 's  all 
show,  bless  you.  She  'd  do  her  any  kindness  in  private.  So,  put  me  down  for  whatever 
you  may  consider  right,  will  you  be  so  good  ?  and  drop  me  a  line  where  to  forward  it. 
Dear  me  ! '  said  Mr.  Omer,  '  when  a  man  is  drawing  on  to  a  time  of  life,  where  the  two 
ends  of  life  meet ;  when  he  finds  himself,  however  hearty  he  is,  being  wheeled  about 
for  the  second  time,  in  a  speeches  of  go-cart ;  he  should  be  over-rejoiced  to  do  a  kind- 
ness if  he  can.  He  wants  plenty.  And  I  don't  speak  of  myself,  particular,'  said  Mr. 
Omer,  '  because,  sir,  the  way  I  look  at  it  is,  that  we  are  all  drawing  on  to  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  whatever  age  we  are,  on  account  of  time  never  standing  still  for  a  single 
moment.     So  let  us  always  do  a  kindness,  and  be  over-rejoiced.     To  be  sure  !  ' 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  put  it  on  a  ledge  in  the  back  of  his 
chair,  expressly  made  for  its  reception. 

'  There  's  Em'ly's  cousin,  him  that  she  was  to  have  been  married  to,'  said  Mr. 
Omer,  rubbing  his  hands  feebly,  '  as  fuie  a  fellow  as  there  is  in  Yarmouth  !  He  '11 
come  and  talk  or  read  to  me,  in  the  evening,  for  an  hour  together  sometimes.  That 's 
a  kindness,  I  should  call  it  !     All  his  life  's  a  kindness.' 

'  I  am  going  to  see  him  now,'  said  I. 

'  Are  you  ?  '  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  Tell  him  I  was  hearty,  and  sent  my  respects. 
Mimiie  and  Joram's  at  a  ball.  They  would  be  as  proud  to  see  you  as  I  am,  if  they 
was  at  home.  Minnie  won't  hardly  go  out  at  all,  you  see,  "  on  account  of  father," 
as  she  says.  So  I  swore  to-night,  that  if  she  didn't  go,  I  'd  go  to  bed  at  six.  In 
consequence  of  which,'  Mr.  Omer  shook  himself  and  his  chair,  with  laughter  at  the 
success  of  his  device,  '  she  and  Joram  's  at  a  ball.' 

I  shook  hands  with  him,  and  wished  him  good-night. 

'  Half  a  minute,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Omer.  '  If  you  was  to  go  without  seeing  my  little 
elephant,  you  'd  lose  the  best  of  sights.     You  never  see  such  a  sight  !     Minnie  !  ' 

A  nmsical  little  voice  answered,  from  somewhere  upstairs,  '  I  am  coming,  grand- 


TIIK   liK(;iNNIN(;  OF  A    LON(;i:R  .lOUllNHV        479 

father!'  .and  a  pretty  little  girl  with  long,  flaxen,  curling  hair,  soon  canic  nnniing 
into  the  shop. 

'  This  is  my  little  elephant,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Onner,  fondling  the  child.  '  Siamese 
breed,  sir.     Now,  little  clejjhant  !  ' 

The  little  elephant  set  the  door  of  the  parlour  open,  enabling  me  to  see  that, 
in  these  latter  days,  it  was  converted  into  a  bedroom  for  Mr.  Omer,  who  could  not  be 
easily  conveyed  upstairs  ;  and  then  hid  her  pretty  forehead,  and  tumbled  her  long 
hair,  against  the  back  of  Mr.  Omer's  chair. 

'  The  elephant  butts,  you  know,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Omer,  winking,  '  when  he  goes  at  a 
object.     Once,  elephant.     Twice.     Three  times  !  ' 

At  this  signal,  the  little  elephant,  with  a  dexterity  that  was  next  to  marvellous 
in  so  small  an  animal,  whisked  the  chair  round  with  Mr.  Omer  in  it,  and  rattled  it  off, 
pell-mell,  into  the  parlour,  without  touching  the  doorpost  ;  Mr.  Omer  indescribably 
enjoying  the  performance,  and  looking  back  at  mc  on  the  road  as  if  it  were  the 
triumphant  issue  of  his  life's  exertions. 

After  a  stroll  about  the  town,  I  went  to  Ham's  house.  Peggotty  had  now 
removed  here  for  good  ;  and  had  let  her  own  house  to  the  successor  of  Mr.  Harkis  in 
the  carrying  business,  who  had  paid  her  very  well  for  the  goodwill,  cart,  and  horse. 
I  believe  the  very  same  slow  horse  that  Mr.  Barkis  drove,  was  still  at  work. 

I  found  them  in  the  neat  kitchen,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Gummidge,  who  had 
been  fetched  from  the  old  boat  by  Mr.  Peggotty  himself.  I  doubt  if  she  could  have 
been  induced  to  desert  her  post,  by  any  one  else.  He  had  evidently  told  them  all. 
Both  Peggotty  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  had  their  aprons  to  their  eyes,  and  Ham  had 
just  stepped  out  '  to  take  a  turn  on  the  beach.'  He  presently  came  home,  very  glad 
to  see  me  ;  and  I  hope  they  were  all  the  better  for  my  being  there.  We  spoke,  with 
some  approach  to  cheerfulness,  of  Mr.  Peggotty's  growing  rich  in  a  new  country,  and 
of  the  wonders  he  would  describe  in  his  letters.  We  said  nothing  of  Emily  by  name, 
but  distantly  referred  to  her  more  than  once.     Ham  was  the  serenest  of  the  party. 

But,  Peggotty  told  me,  when  she  lighted  me  to  a  little  chamber  where  the 
crocodile-book  was  lying  ready  for  me  on  the  table,  that  he  always  was  the  same.  She 
believed  (she  told  me,  crying)  that  he  was  broken-hearted  ;  though  he  was  as  full  of 
courage  as  of  sweetness,  and  worked  harder  and  better  than  any  boat-builder  in  any 
yard  in  all  that  })art.  There  were  times,  she  said,  of  an  evening,  when  he  talked 
of  their  old  life  in  the  boat-house  ;  and  then  he  mentioned  Emily  as  a  child.  But. 
he  never  mentioned  her  as  a  woman. 

I  thought  I  had  read  in  his  face  that  he  would  like  to  speak  to  me  alone.  I 
therefore  resolved  to  put  myself  in  his  way  next  evening,  as  he  came  home  from  his 
work.  Having  settled  this  with  mj'self,  I  fell  asleep.  That  night,  for  the  first  time 
in  all  those  many  nights,  the  candle  was  taken  out  of  the  window.  Mr.  Peggotty  swung 
in  his  old  hammock  in  the  old  boat,  and  the  wind  murmured  with  the  old  sound  round 
his  head. 

All  next  day,  he  was  occupied  in  disposing  of  his  fishing-boat  and  tackle  ;  in 
packing  up,  and  sending  to  London  by  waggon,  such  of  his  little  domestic  possessions 
as  he  thought  would  be  useful  to  him  ;  and  in  parting  with  the  rest,  or  bestowing  them 
on  Mrs.  Gummidge.  She  was  with  liim  all  day.  As  I  had  a  sorrowful  wish  to  see  the 
old  place  once  more,  before  it  was  locked  up,  I  engaged  to  meet  them  there  in  the 
evening.     But  I  so  arranged  it,  as  that  I  should  meet  Ham  first. 

It  was  easy  to  come  in  his  way,  as  I  knew  where  he  worked.     I  met  him  at  a 


480  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

retired  part  of  the  sands,  which  I  knew  he  would  cross,  and  turned  back  with  him, 
that  he  might  have  leisure  to  speak  to  me  if  he  really  wished.  I  had  not  mistaken 
the  expression  of  his  face.  We  had  walked  but  a  little  way  together,  when  he  said, 
without  looking  at  me — 

'  Mas'r  Davy,  have  you  seen  her  ?  ' 

'  Only  for  a  moment,  when  she  was  in  a  swoon,'  I  softly  answered. 

We  walked  a  little  farther,  and  he  said — 

'  Mas'r  Davy,  shall  you  see  her,  d  'ye  think  ?  ' 

'  It  would  be  too  painful  to  her,  perhaps,'  said  I. 

'  I  have  thowt  of  that,'  he  replied.     '  So  'twould,  sir,  so  'twould.' 

'  But,  Ham,'  said  I,  gently,  '  if  there  is  anything  that  I  could  write  to  her,  for 
you,  in  case  I  could  not  tell  it ;  if  there  is  anything  you  would  wish  to  make  known 
to  her  through  me  ;    I  should  consider  it  a  sacred  trust.' 

'  I  am  sure  on  't.  I  thank'ee,  sir,  most  kind  !  I  think  theer  is  something  I  could 
wish  said  or  wrote.' 

'  What  is  it  ?  ' 

We  walked  a  little  farther  in  silence,  and  then  he  spoke. 

'  'Tan't  that  I  forgive  her.  'Tan't  that  so  much.  'Tis  more  as  I  beg  of  her  to 
forgive  me,  for  having  pressed  my  affections  upon  her.  Odd  times,  I  think  that  if  I 
hadn't  had  her  promise  fur  to  marry  me,  sir,  she  was  that  trustful  of  me,  in  a  friendly 
way,  that  she  'd  have  told  me  what  was  struggling  in  her  mind,  and  would  have 
counselled  with  me,  and  I  might  have  saved  her.' 

I  pressed  his  hand.     '  Is  that  all  ?  ' 

'  Theer  's  yet  a  something  else,'  he  returned,  '  if  I  can  say  it,  Mas'r  Davy.' 

We  walked  on,  farther  than  we  had  walked  yet,  before  he  spoke  again.  He  was 
not  crying  when  he  made  the  pauses  I  shall  express  by  lines.  He  was  merely 
collecting  himself  to  speak  very  plainly. 

'  I  loved  her — and  I  love  the  mem'ry  of  her — ^too  deep — to  be  able  to  lead  her 
to  believe  of  my  own  self  as  I  'm  a  happy  man.  I  could  only  be  happy — by  forgetting 
of  her — and  I  'm  afeerd  I  couldn't  hardly  bear  as  she  should  be  told  I  done  that.  But 
if  you,  being  so  full  of  learning,  Mas'r  Davy,  could  think  of  anything  to  say  as  might 
bring  her  to  believe  I  wasn't  greatly  hurt  :  still  loving  of  her,  and  mourning  for  her  : 
anything  as  might  bring  her  to  believe  as  I  was  not  tired  of  my  life,  and  yet  was  hoping 
fur  to  see  her  without  blame,  wheer  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest — anything  as  would  ease  her  sorro-vvful  mind,  and  yet  not  make  her  think 
as  I  could  ever  marry,  or  as  'twas  possible  that  any  one  could  ever  be  to  me  what  she 
was — I  should  ask  of  you  to  say  that — with  my  prayers  for  her — that  was  so  dear.' 

I  pressed  his  manly  hand  again,  and  told  him  I  would  charge  myself  to  do  this 
as  well  as  I  could. 

'  I  thank  'ee,  sir,'  he  answered.  '  'Twas  kind  of  you  to  meet  me.  'Twas  kind  of 
you  to  bear  him  company  down.  Mas'r  Davy,  I  unnerstan'  very  well,  though  my 
aunt  will  come  to  Lon'on  afore  they  sail,  and  they  '11  unite  once  more,  that  I  am  not 
like  to  see  him  again.  I  fare  to  feel  sure  on  't.  We  doen't  say  so,  but  so  'twill  be, 
and  better  so.  The  last  you  see  on  him — the  very  last — will  you  give  him  the  lovingest 
duty  and  thanks  of  the  orphan,  as  he  was  ever  more  than  a  father  to  '?  ' 
This  I  also  promised,  faithfully. 

'  I  thank  'ee  agen,  sir,'  he  said,  heartily  shaking  hands.  '  I  know  wheer  you  're 
a  going.     Good-bye  !  ' 


THE  BE(iINNlN(l  OF  A    LONCiElt  .lOlTRNKY         iHi 

With  a  slij^ht  wave  of  his  huiid,  ;is  tlioiif,'h  to  explain  to  mc  that  he  could  not  enter 
the  old  place,  he  turned  away.  As  I  looked  after  his  fif^ure,  crossing  the  waste  in  the 
nioonlif,'ht,  I  saw  hinri  tiirn  his  face  towards  a  strip  of  silvery  light  upon  the  sea,  and 
pass  on,  looking  at  it,  until  lie  was  a  shadow  in  the  chstance. 

The  door  of  the  })oat-}iouse  stood  open  when  I  approached  ;  and,  on  entering,  I 
found  it  emptied  of  all  its  furniture,  saving  one  of  the  old  lockers,  on  which  Mrs. 
Gunimidge,  with  a  basket  on  her  knee,  was  seated,  looking  at  Mr.  T'eggotty.  He 
leaned  his  elbow  on  the  rough  (hininey-piece,  and  gazed  upf)ri  a  few  c.xjjiring  embers  in 
the  grate  ;  but  he  raised  his  head,  hopefully,  on  my  coming  in,  and  spoke  in  a  cheery 
manner. 

'  Come,  according  to  promise,  to  bid  farewell  to  't,  eh,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  '  he  said, 
taking  up  the  candle.     '  Bare  enough,  now,  an't  it  ?  ' 

'  Indeed  you  have  made  good  use  of  the  time,'  said  I. 

'  Why,  we  have  not  been  idle,  sir.  Missis  (Jummidgc  has  worked  like  a — I  doen't 
know  what  Missis  Gummidge  an't  worked  like,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  at  her, 
at  a  loss  for  a  sufficiently  approving  simile. 

Mrs.  Gummidge,  leaning  on  her  basket,  made  no  observation. 

'  Theer  's  the  very  locker  that  you  used  to  sit  on,  'long  with  Em'ly  !  '  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  in  a  whisper.  '  I  'm  a  going  to  carry  it  away  with  me,  last  of  all.  And 
heer  's  your  old  little  bedroom,  see,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  A'most  as  bleak  to-night,  as  'art 
could  wish  !  ' 

In  truth,  the  wind,  though  it  was  low,  had  a  solemn  sound,  and  crept  around 
the  deserted  house  with  a  whispered  wailing  that  was  very  mournful.  Everything 
was  gone,  down  to  the  little  mirror  with  the  oyster-shell  frame.  I  thought  of  myself, 
lying  here,  when  that  first  great  change  was  being  wrought  at  home.  I  thought  of  the 
blue-eyed  child  who  had  enchanted  me.  I  thought  of  Stecrforth  :  and  a  foolish, 
fearful  fancy  came  upon  me  of  his  being  near  at  hand,  and  liable  to  be  met  at  any 
turn. 

'  'Tis  like  to  be  long,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  in  a  low  voice,  '  afore  the  boat  finds 
new  tenants.     They  look  upon  't  down  heer,  as  being  unfort'nate  now  !  ' 

'  Does  it  belong  to  anybody  in  the  neighbourhood  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  To  a  mast-maker  up  town,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  I  'm  a  going  to  give  the  key 
to  him  to-night.' 

W'e  looked  into  the  other  little  room,  and  came  back  to  Mrs.  Gummidge,  sitting 
on  the  locker,  whom  Mr.  Peggotty,  putting  the  light  on  the  chimney-piece,  requested 
to  rise,  that  he  might  carry  it  outside  the  dooV  before  extinguishing  the  candle. 

'  Dan'l,'  said  Mrs.  Gummidge,  suddenly  deserting  her  basket,  and  clinging  to  his 
arm,  '  my  dear  Dan'l,  the  parting  words  I  speak  in  this  house  is,  I  mustn't  be  left 
behind.     Doen't  ye  think  of  leaving  me  behind,  Dan'l  !     Oh,  doen't  ye  ever  do  it  !  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty,  taken  aback,  looked  from  Mrs.  Gummidge  to  me,  and  from  me  to 
Mrs.  Gummidge,  as  if  he  had  been  awakened  from  a  sleep. 

'  Doen't  ye,  dearest  Dan'l,  doen't  ye  !  '  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge,  fer\'ently.  '  Take 
me  'long  with  you,  Dan'l,  take  me  'long  with  you  and  Em'ly  !  I  '11  be  your  servant, 
constant  and  trew.  If  there  's  slaves  in  them  parts  where  you  're  a  going,  I  '11  be 
bound  to  you  for  one,  and  happy,  but  doen't  ye  leave  me  behind,  Dan'l,  that  's  a 
deary  dear  !  ' 

'  My  good  soul,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  shaking  his  head,  '  you  doen't  know  what  a 
long  voyage,  and  what  a  hard  life  'tis  !  ' 

a 


482  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Yes  I  do,  Dan'l  !  I  can  guess  !  '  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge.  '  But  my  parting 
words  under  this  roof  is,  I  shall  go  into  the  house  and  die,  if  I  am  not  took.  I  can 
dig,  Dan'l.  I  can  work.  I  can  live  hard.  I  can  be  loving  and  patient  now — more 
than  you  think,  Dan'l,  if  you  '11  on'y  try  me.  I  wouldn't  touch  the  'lowance,  not  if 
I  was  dying  of  want,  Dan'l  Peggotty  ;  but  I  '11  go  with  you  and  Em'ly,  if  you  '11  on'y 
let  me,  to  the  world's  end  !  I  know  how  'tis  ;  I  know  you  think  that  I  am  lone  and 
lorn  ;  but,  deary  love,  'tan't  so  no  more  !  I  ain't  sat  here,  so  long,  a  watching,  and 
a  thinking  of  your  trials,  without  some  good  being  done  me.  Mas'r  Davy,  speak  to  him 
for  me  !  I  knows  his  ways,  and  Em'ly's,  and  I  knows  their  sorrows,  and  can  be  a 
comfort  to  'em,  some  odd  times,  and  labour  for  'em  alius  !  Dan'l,  deary  Dan'l,  let 
me  go  'long  with  you  !  ' 

And  Mrs.  Gummidge  took  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  with  a  homely  pathos  and 
affection,  in  a  homely  rapture  of  devotion  and  gratitude,  that  he  well  deserved. 

We  brought  the  locker  out,  extinguished  the  candle,  fastened  the  door  on  the 
outside,  and  left  the  old  boat  close  shut  up,  a  dark  speck  in  the  cloudy  night.  Next 
day,  when  we  were  returning  to  London  outside  the  coach,  Mrs.  Gummidge  and  her 
basket  were  on  the  seat  behind,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  was  happy. 


CHAPTER    LII 

I    ASSIST   AT    AN    EXPLOSION 

WHEN  the  time  Mr.  Micawber  had  appointed  so  mysteriously,  was  within 
four-and-twenty  hours  of  being  come,  my  aunt  and  I  consulted  how 
we  should  proceed  ;  for  my  aunt  was  very  unwilling  to  leave  Dora. 
Ah  !    how  easily  I  carried  Dora  up  and  down  stairs,  now  ! 

We  were  disposed,  notwithstanding  Mr.  Jlicawber's  stipulation  for  my  aunt's 
attendance,  to  arrange  that  she  should  stay  at  home,  and  be  represented  by  Mr.  Dick 
and  me.  In  short,  we  had  resolved  to  take  this  course,  when  Dora  again  unsettled 
us  by  declaring  that  she  never  would  forgive  herself,  and  never  would  forgive  her  bad 
boy,  if  my  aunt  remained  behind,  on  any  pretence. 

'  I  won't  speak  to  you,'  said  Dora,  shaking  her  curls  at  my  aunt.  '  I  '11  be  dis- 
agreeable !  I  '11  make  Jip  bark  at  you  all  day.  I  shall  be  sure  that  you  really  are  a 
cross  old  thing,  if  you  don't  go  !  ' 

'  Tut,  Blossom  !  '   laughed  my  aunt.     '  You  know  you  can't  do  without  me  !  ' 

'  Yes,  I  can,'  said  Dora.  '  You  are  no  use  to  me  at  all.  You  never  run  up  and 
down  stairs  for  me,  all  day  long.  You  never  sit  and  tell  me  stories  about  Doady, 
when  his  shoes  were  worn  out,  and  he  was  covered  with  dust — oh,  what  a  poor  little 
mite  of  a  fellow  !  You  never  do  anything  at  all  to  please  me,  do  you,  dear  ?  '  Dora 
made  haste  to  kiss  my  aunt,  and  say,  '  Yes,  you  do  !  I  'm  only  joking  !  ' — lest  my 
aunt  should  think  she  really  meant  it. 

'  But,  aunt,'  said  Dora,  coaxingly,  '  now  listen.  You  must  go.  I  shall  tease  you, 
till  you  let  me  have  my  own  way  about  it.  I  shall  lead  my  naughty  boy  such  a  life, 
if  he  don't  make  you  go.  I  shall  make  myself  so  disagreeable  — and  so  will  Jip  ! 
You  '11  wish  you  had  gone,  like  a  good  thing,  for  ever  and  ever  so  long,  if 
you   don't  go.     Besides,'  said   Dora,    putting   back   her   hair,   and   looking  wonder- 


I  ASSIST  AT  AN  EXPLOSION  483 

ingly  at  my  aunt  and  me,  '  wliy  sliouldn't  you  bolli  go  V  I  am  not  very  ill  indeed. 
Ami?' 

'  Why,  what  a  question  !  '    cried  my  aunt. 

'  What  a  fancy  !  '    said  I. 

'  Yes  !  I  know  I  am  a  silly  little  thing  !  '  said  Dora,  slowly  looking  from  one  of 
us  to  the  other,  and  then  jjutting  up  her  pretty  IIjjs  to  kiss  us  as  she  lay  upon  her 
couch.  '  Well,  then,  you  must  both  go,  or  I  shall  not  believe  you  ;  and  then  I  shall 
cry  !  ' 

I  saw,  in  my  aunt's  face,  that  she  began  to  give  way  now,  and  Dora  brightened 
again,  as  she  saw  it  too. 

'  You  '11  come  back  with  so  nmch  to  tell  me,  that  it  '11  take  at  least  a  week  to 
make  me  understand  !  '  said  Dora.  '  Because  I  know  I  shan't  understand,  for  a 
length  of  time,  if  there  's  any  business  in  it.  And  there  's  sure  to  l)e  some  business  in 
it !  If  there  's  anything  to  ;idd  up,  besides,  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  make  it  out ;  and 
my  bad  boy  will  look  so  miserable  all  the  time.  There  !  Now  you  'II  go,  won't  you  ? 
You  '11  only  be  gone  one  night,  and  Jip  will  take  care  of  me  while  you  are  gone. 
Doady  will  carry  me  upstairs  before  you  go,  and  I  won't  come  down  again  till  you 
come  back  ;  and  you  shall  take  Agnes  a  dreadfully  scolding  letter  from  me,  because 
she  has  never  been  to  see  us  !  ' 

We  agreed,  without  any  more  consultation,  that  we  would  both  go,  and  that 
Dora  was  a  little  impostor,  who  feigned  to  be  rather  unwell,  because  she  liked  to  be 
petted.  She  was  greatly  pleased,  and  very  merry  ;  and  we  four,  that  is  to  say,  my 
aunt,  Mr.  Dick,  Traddles,  and  I,  went  down  to  Canterbury  by  the  Dover  mail  that  night. 

At  the  hotel  where  Mr.  Micawber  had  requested  us  to  await  him,  which  we  got 
into,  with  some  trouble,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  found  a  letter,  importing  that  he 
would  appear  in  the  morning  pimetually  at  half-past  nine.  After  which,  we  went 
shivering,  at  that  uncomfortable  hour,  to  our  respective  beds,  through  various  close 
passages  ;  which  smelt  as  if  they  had  been  steeped,  for  ages,  in  a  solution  of  soup  and 
stables. 

Early  in  the  morning,  I  sauntered  through  the  dear  old  tranquil  streets,  and  again 
mingled  with  the  shadows  of  the  venerable  gateways  and  churches.  The  rooks  were 
sailing  about  the  cathedral  towers  ;  and  the  towers  themselves,  overlooking  many  a 
long  unaltered  mile  of  the  rich  country  and  its  pleasant  streams,  were  cutting  the 
bright  morning  air,  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  change  on  earth.  Yet  the  bells, 
when  they  sounded,  told  me  sorrowfully  of  change  in  everything  ;  told  me  of  their 
own  age,  and  my  pretty  Dora's  youth  ;  and  of  the  many,  never  old,  who  had  lived 
and  loved  and  died,  while  the  reverberations  of  the  bells  had  hummed  through  the 
rusty  armour  of  the  Black  Prince  hanging  up  within,  and,  motes  upon  the  deep  of 
Time,  had  lost  themselves  in  air,  as  circles  do  in  water. 

I  looked  at  the  old  house  from  the  corner  of  the  street,  but  did  not  go  nearer  to 
it,  lest,  being  observed,  I  might  unwittingly  do  any  harm  to  the  design  I  had  come 
to  aid.  The  early  sun  was  striking  edgewise  on  its  gables  and  lattice-windows,  touching 
them  with  gold  ;  and  some  beams  of  its  old  peace  seemed  to  touch  my  heart. 

I  strolled  into  the  country  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  then  returned  by  the  main  street, 
which  in  the  interval  had  shaken  off  its  last  night's  sleep.  Among  those  who  were 
stirring  in  the  shops,  I  saw  my  ancient  enemy,  the  butcher,  now  advanced  to  top- 
boots  and  a  baby,  and  in  business  for  himself.  He  was  nursing  the  baby,  and  appeared 
to  be  a  benignant  member  of  society. 


484  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

We  all  became  very  anxious  and  impatient,  when  we  sat  down  to  breakfast.  As 
it  approached  nearer  and  nearer  to  half-past  nine  o'clock,  our  restless  expectation 
of  Mr.  Micawber  increased.  At  last  we  made  no  more  pretence  of  attending  to  the 
meal,  which,  except  with  Mr.  Dick,  had  been  a  mere  form  from  the  first  ;  but  my 
aunt  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  Traddles  sat  upon  the  sofa  affecting  to  read  the 
paper  with  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling  ;  and  I  looked  out  of  the  window  to  give  early 
notice  of  Mr.  Micawber's  coming.  Nor  had  I  long  to  watch,  for,  at  the  first  chime 
of  the  half-hour,  he  appeared  in  the  street. 

'  Here  he  is,'  said  I,  '  and  not  in  his  legal  attire  !  ' 

My  aunt  tied  the  strings  of  her  bonnet  (she  had  come  down  to  breakfast  in  it), 
and  put  on  her  shawl,  as  if  she  were  ready  for  anything  that  was  resolute  and  un- 
compromising. Traddles  buttoned  his  coat  with  a  determined  air.  Mr.  Dick,  dis- 
turbed by  these  formidable  appearances,  but  feeling  it  necessary  to  imitate  them, 
pulled  his  hat,  with  both  hands,  as  firmly  over  his  ears  as  he  possibly  could  ;  and 
instantly  took  it  off  again,  to  welcome  Mr.  Micawber. 

'  Gentlemen,  and  madam,'  said  ]\Ir.  Micawber,  '  good  morning  !  My  dear  sir,' 
to  Mr.  Dick,  who  shook  hands  with  him  violently,  '  you  are  extremely  good.' 

'  Have  you  breakfasted  ?  '    said  Mr.  Dick.     '  Have  a  chop  !  ' 

'  Not  for  the  world,  my  good  sir  !  '  cried  Mr.  Micawber,  stopping  him  on  his  way 
to  the  bell  ;    '  appetite  and  myself,  Mr.  Dixon,  have  long  been  strangers.' 

Mr.  Dixon  was  so  well  pleased  with  his  new  name,  and  appeared  to  think  it  so  very 
obliging  in  Mr.  Micawber  to  confer  it  upon  him,  that  he  shook  hands  with  him  again, 
and  laughed  rather  childishly. 

'  Dick,'  said  my  aunt,  '  attention  !  ' 

Mr.  Dick  recovered  himself,  with  a  blush. 

'  Now,  sir,'  said  my  aunt  to  Mr.  Micawber,  as  she  put  on  her  gloves,  '  we  are 
ready  for  Mount  Vesuvius,  or  anything  else,  as  soon  as  you  please.' 

'  Madam,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  '  I  trust  you  will  shortly  witness  an  eruption. 
Mr.  Traddles,  I  have  your  permission,  I  believe,  to  mention  here  that  we  have  been 
in  communication  together  ?  ' 

'  It  is  undoubtedly  the  fact,  Copperfield,'  said  Traddles,  to  whom  I  looked  in 
surprise.  '  Mr.  Micawber  has  consulted  me,  in  reference  to  what  he  has  in  contempla- 
tion ;   and  I  have  advised  him  to  the  best  of  my  judgment.' 

'  Unless  I  deceive  myself,  Mr.  Traddles,'  pursued  Mr.  Micawber,  '  what  I  con- 
template is  a  disclosure  of  an  important  nature.' 

'  Highly  so,'  said  Traddles. 

'  Perhaps,  under  such  circumstances,  madam  and  gentlemen,'  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
'  you  will  do  me  the  favour  to  submit  yourselves,  for  the  moment,  to  the  direction  of 
one,  who,  however  unworthy  to  be  regarded  in  any  other  light  but  as  a  Waif  and  Stray 
upon  the  shore  of  human  nature,  is  still  your  fellow-man,  though  crushed  out  of  his 
original  form  by  individual  errors,  and  the  accumulative  force  of  a  combination  of 
circumstances  ?  ' 

'  We  have  perfect  confidence  in  you,  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  I,  '  and  will  do  what 
you  please.' 

'  Mr.  Copperfield,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  '  your  confidence  is  not,  at  the  existing 
juncture,  ill-bestowed.  I  would  beg  to  be  allowed  a  start  of  five  minutes  by  the 
clock  ;  and  then  to  receive  the  present  company,  inquiring  for  Miss  Wickfield,  at  the 
office  of  Wickfield  and  Heep,  whose  Stipendiary  I  am.' 


I  ASSIST  AT  AN  EXPLOSION  485 

My  aunt  and  I  looked  at  'I'raddlcs,  wlio  nodded  his  approval. 

'  I  have  no  more,'  observed  Mr.  Mieawher,  '  to  say  at  present.' 

With  whieh,  to  my  infinite  surprise,  he  included  us  all  in  a  comprehensive  l)Ow, 
and  disappeared  ;   his  manner  being  extremely  distant,  and  his  face  extremely  pale. 

Traddles  only  smiled,  and  shook  his  head  (with  his  hair  standing  upright  on  the 
top  of  it),  when  1  looked  to  liini  for  an  exjjlanation  ;  so  I  took  out  my  watch,  and,  as 
a  last  resource,  counted  off  the  five  minutes.  My  aunt,  with  her  own  watch  in  her 
hand,  did  the  like.  When  the  time  was  ex[)ired,  Traddles  gave  her  his  arm  ;  and  we 
all  went  out  together  to  the  old  house,  without  saying  one  word  on  the  way. 

We  found  Mr.  Micawber  at  his  desk,  in  the  turret  office  on  the  ground  floor,  either 
writing,  or  pretending  to  write,  hard.  The  large  office-ruler  was  stuck  into  his  waist- 
coat, and  was  not  so  well  concealed  but  that  a  foot  or  more  of  that  instrument  protruded 
from  his  bosom,  like  a  new  kind  of  shirt-frill. 

As  it  appeared  to  me  that  I  was  expected  to  speak,  I  said  aloud  — 

'  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  ]\Iicawber  ?  ' 

'  Mr.  Coppcrficld,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  gravely,  '  I  hope  I  see  you  well  ?  ' 

'  Is  Miss  Wickfield  at  home  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Mr.  Wickfield  is  unw^cll  in  bed.  sir,  of  a  rheumatic  fever,'  he  returned  ;  '  liut 
Miss  Wickfield,  I  have  no  tloubt,  will  be  happy  to  see  old  friends.  Will  you  walk  in, 
sir?' 

He  preceded  us  to  the  dining-room — the  first  room  I  had  entered  in  that  house  — 
and  flinging  open  the  door  of  Mr.  Wickfield's  former  oflice,  said  in  a  sonorous  voice  — 

'  Miss  Trotwood,  Mr.  David  Copperfield,  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  and  Mr.  Dixon  !  ' 

I  had  not  seen  Uriah  Ileep  since  the  time  of  the  blow.  Our  visit  astonished  him, 
evidently  ;  not  the  less,  I  dare  say,  because  it  astonished  ourselves.  He  did  not 
gather  his  eyebrows  together,  for  he  had  none  worth  mentioning  ;  but  he  frowned  to 
that  degree  that  he  almost  closed  his  small  eyes,  while  the  hurried  raising  of  his 
gristly  hand  to  his  chin  betrayed  some  trepidation  or  surprise.  This  was  only  when 
■we  were  in  the  act  of  entering  his  room,  and  when  I  caught  a  glance  at  him  over  my 
aunt's  shoulder.     A  moment  afterwards,  he  was  as  fawning  and  as  humble  as  ever. 

'  Well,  I  am  sure,'  he  said.  '  This  is  indeed  an  unexpected  pleasure  !  To  have, 
as  I  may  say,  all  friends  round  Saint  Paid's  at  once,  is  a  treat  unlocked  for  !  Mr. 
Copperfield,  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  and — if  I  may  umbly  express  self  so — friendly 
towards  them  as  is  ever  your  friends,  whether  or  not.  Mrs.  Copperfield,  sir.  I  hope 
she  's  getting  on.  We  have  been  made  quite  uneasy  by  the  poor  accounts  we  have 
had  of  her  state,  lately,  I  do  assure  you.' 

I  felt  ashamed  to  let  him  take  my  hand,  but  I  did  not  know  yet  what  else  to  do. 

'  Things  are  changed  in  this  office.  Miss  Trotwood,  since  I  was  a  numble  clerk, 
and  held  your  pony  ;  ain't  they  ?  '  said  Uriah,  with  his  sickliest  smile.  '  But  / 
am  not  changed,  Miss  Trotwood.' 

'  Well,  sir,'  returned  my  aimt,  '  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  you  are  pretty 
constant  to  the  promise  of  your  youth  ;   if  that 's  any  satisfaction  to  you.' 

'  Thank  you.  Miss  Trotwood,'  said  Uriah,  writhing  in  his  ungainly  manner,  '  for 
your  good  opinion  !  Micawber,  tell  'em  to  let  Miss  Agnes  know — and  mother. 
Mother  will  be  quite  in  a  state,  when  she  sees  the  present  company  !  '  said  Uriah, 
setting  chairs. 

'  You  are  not  busy,  Mr.  Heep  ?  '  said  Traddles.  whose  eye  the  cunning  red  eye 
accidentally  caught,  as  it  at  once  scrutinised  and  evaded  us. 


486  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  No,  Mr.  Traddles,'  replied  Uriah,  resuming  his  official  seat,  and  squeezing  his 
bony  hands,  laid  palm  to  palm,  between  his  bony  knees.  '  Not  so  much  so  as  I  could 
wish.  But  lawyers,  sharks,  and  leeches,  are  not  easily  satisfied,  you  know  !  Not 
but  what  myself  and  Micawber  have  our  hands  pretty  full  in  general,  on  account  of 
Mr.  Wickfield's  being  hardly  fit  for  any  occupation,  sir.  But  it 's  a  pleasure  as  well 
as  a  duty,  I  am  sure,  to  work  for  him.  You  've  not  been  intimate  with  Mr.  Wickfield, 
I  think,  Mr.  Traddles  ?     I  believe  I  've  only  had  the  honour  of  seeing  you  once  myself  ?  ' 

'  No,  I  have  not  been  intimate  with  Mr.  Wickfield,'  returned  Traddles  ;  '  or  I 
might  perhaps  have  waited  on  you  long  ago,  Mr.  Heep.' 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  this  reply,  which  made  Uriah  look  at  the 
speaker  again,  with  a  very  sinister  and  suspicious  expression.  But,  seeing  only 
Traddles,  with  his  good-natured  face,  simple  manner,  and  hair  on  end,  he  dismissed 
it  as  he  replied,  with  a  jerk  of  his  whole  body,  but  especially  his  throat — 

'  I  am  sorry  for  that,  Mr.  Traddles.  You  would  have  admired  him  as  much  as  we 
all  do.  His  little  failings  would  only  have  endeared  him  to  you  the  more.  But  if 
you  would  like  to  hear  my  fellow-partner  eloquently  spoken  of,  I  should  refer  you  to 
Copperfield.     The  family  is  a  subject  he  's  very  strong  upon,  if  you  never  heard  him.' 

I  was  prevented  from  disclaiming  the  compliment  (if  I  should  have  done  so,  in 
any  case),  by  the  entrance  of  Agnes,  now  ushered  in  by  Mr.  Micawber.  She  was  not 
quite  so  self-possessed  as  usual,  I  thought  ;  and  had  evidently  undergone  anxiety  and 
fatigue.  But  her  earnest  cordiality,  and  her  quiet  beauty,  shone  with  the  gentler 
lustre  for  it. 

I  saw  Uriah  watch  her  while  she  greeted  us  ;  and  he  reminded  me  of  an  ugly 
and  rebellious  genie  watching  a  good  spirit.  In  the  meanwhile,  some  slight  sign 
passed  between  Mr.  Micawber  and  Traddles  ;  and  Traddles,  unobserved  except  by 
me,  went  out. 

'  Don't  wait,  Micawber,'  said  Uriah. 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  his  hand  upon  the  ruler  in  his  breast,  stood  erect  before  the 
door,  most  unmistakably  contemplating  one  of  his  fellow-men,  and  that  man  his 
employer. 

'  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?  '  said  Uriah.  '  Micawber  !  did  you  hear  me  tell  you 
not  to  wait  ?  * 

'  Yes  !  '   replied  the  immovable  Mr.  Micawber. 

'  Then  why  do  you  wait  ?  '    said  Uriah. 

'  Because  I — in  short  choose,'  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  burst. 

Uriah's  cheeks  lost  colour,  and  an  unwholesome  paleness,  still  faintly  tinged  by 
his  pervading  red,  overspread  them.  He  looked  at  Mr.  Micawber  attentively,  with 
his  whole  face  breathing  short  and  quick  in  every  feature. 

'  You  are  a  dissipated  fellow,  as  all  the  world  knows,'  he  said,  with  an  effort  at 
a  smile,  '  and  I  am  afraid  you  '11  oblige  me  to  get  rid  of  you.  Go  along  !  I  '11  talk 
to  you  presently.' 

'  If  there  is  a  scoundrel  on  this  earth,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  suddenly  breaking  out 
again  with  the  utmost  vehemence,  '  with  whom  I  have  already  talked  too  much,  that 
scoundrel's  name  is — Heep  !  ' 

'  Uriah  fell  back,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  or  stung.  Looking  slowly  round  upon 
us  with  the  darkest  and  wickedest  expression  that  his  face  could  wear,  he  said,  in 
a  lower  voice — 

'  Oho  !     This  is  a  conspiracy  !     You  have  met  here,  by  appointment  1     You  are 


1  ASSIST  A;r  AN  EXPLOSION  487 

playing  Booty  with  my  clerk,  arc  you,  Copperflcid  ?  Now,  take  care.  You  '11  make 
nothiiif^  of  this.  We  understand  each  other,  you  and  me.  There  's  no  love  between 
us.  You  were  always  a  puppy  with  a  proud  stomach,  from  your  first  cominp;  here  ; 
and  you  envy  me  my  rise,  do  you  ?  None  of  your  plots  against  me  ;  I  'II  countcrf)lot 
you  !     Micawher,  you  be  off.     I  'II  talk  to  you  presently.' 

'  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  I,  '  there  is  a  sudden  change  in  this  fellow,  in  more  respects 
than  the  extraordinary  one  of  his  speaking  the  truth  in  one  particular,  which  assures 
me  that  he  is  brought  to  bay.     Deal  with  him  as  he  deserves  !  ' 

'  You  are  a  precious  set  of  people,  ain't  you  ?  '  said  Uriah,  in  the  same  low  voice, 
and  breaking  out  into  a  clammy  heat,  which  he  wiped  from  his  forehead,  with  his 
long  lean  hand,  '  to  buy  over  my  clerk,  who  is  the  very  scum  of  society — as  you  your- 
self were,  Copperfield,  you  know  it,  before  any  one  had  charity  on  you — to  defame 
me  with  his  lies  ?  Miss  Trotwood,  you  had  better  stop  this  ;  or  I  'II  stop  your  husband 
shorter  than  will  be  pleasant  to  you.  I  won't  know  your  story  professionally,  for 
nothing,  old  lady  !  Miss  Wickfield,  if  you  have  any  love  for  your  father,  you  had 
better  not  join  that  gang.  I  'II  ruin  him,  if  you  do.  Now,  come  !  I  have  got  some 
of  you  under  the  harrow.  Think  twice,  before  it  goes  over  you.  Think  twice,  you, 
Micawber,  if  you  don't  want  to  be  crushed.  I  recommend  you  to  take  yourself 
off,  and  be  talked  to  presently,  you  fool  !  while  there  's  time  to  retreat.  Where  's 
mother  ?  '  he  said,  suddenly  appearing  to  notice,  with  alarm,  the  absence  of  Traddles, 
and  pulling  down  the  bell-rope.     '  Fine  doings  in  a  person's  own  house  !  ' 

'  Mrs.  Heep  is  here,  sir,'  said  Traddles,  returning  with  that  worthy  mother  of  a 
worthy  son.     '  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  making  myself  known  to  her.' 

'  Who  are  you  to  make  yourself  known  ?  '  retorted  Uriah.  '  And  what  do  you 
want  here  ?  ' 

'  I  am  the  agent  and  friend  of  Mr.  W'ickfield,  sir,'  said  Traddles,  in  a  composed 
business-like  way.  '  And  I  have  a  power  of  attorney  from  him  in  my  pocket,  to  act 
for  him  in  all  matters.' 

'  The  old  ass  has  drunk  himself  into  a  state  of  dotage,'  said  Uriah,  turning  uglier 
than  before,  '  and  it  has  been  got  from  him  by  fraud  !  ' 

'  Something  has  been  got  from  him  by  fraud,  I  know,'  returned  Traddles  quietly  ; 
'  and  so  do  you,  Mr.  Heep.     We  will  refer  that  question,  if  you  please,  to  Mr.  Micawber.' 

'  Ury ■'  Mrs.  Heep  began,  with  an  anxious  gesture. 

'  You  hold  your  tongue,  mother,'  he  returned  ;   '  least  said,  soonest  mended.' 

'  But  my  Ury ' 

'  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  mother,  and  leave  it  to  me  ?  ' 

Though  I  had  long  known  that  his  servility  was  false,  and  all  his  pretences 
knavish  and  hollow,  I  had  had  no  adequate  conception  of  the  extent  of  his  hypocrisy, 
until  I  now  saw  him  with  his  mask  off.  The  suddenness  ^vith  which  he  dropped  it, 
when  he  perceived  that  it  was  useless  to  him  ;  the  malice,  insolence,  and  hatred  he 
revealed  ;  the  leer  with  which  he  exulted,  even  at  this  moment,  in  the  evil  he  had  done 
— all  this  time  being  desperate  too,  and  at  his  wits'  end  for  the  means  of  getting  the 
better  of  us — though  perfectly  consistent  with  the  experience  I  had  of  him,  at  first 
took  even  me  by  surprise,  who  had  known  him  so  long,  and  disliked  him  so  heartily. 

I  say  nothing  of  the  look  he  conferred  on  me,  as  he  stood  eyeing  us,  one  after 
another  ;  for  I  had  always  understood  that  he  hated  me,  and  I  remembered  the  marks 
of  my  hand  upon  his  cheek.  But  when  his  eyes  passed  on  to  Agnes,  and  I  saw  the  rage 
with  which  he  felt  his  power  over  her  slipping  away,  and  the  exhibition,  in    their 


488  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

disappointment,  of  the  odious  passions  that  had  led  him  to  aspire  to  one  whose  virtues 
he  could  never  appreciate  or  care  for,  I  was  shocked  by  the  mere  thought  of  her 
having  lived,  an  hour,  within  sight  of  such  a  man. 

After  some  rubbing  of  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  and  some  looking  at  us  with 
those  bad  eyes,  over  his  gristly  fingers,  he  made  one  more  address  to  me,  half  whining, 
and  half  abusive. 

'  You  think  it  justifiable,  do  you,  Copperfield,  you  who  pride  yourself  so  much 
on  your  honour  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  to  sneak  about  my  place,  eavesdropping  with 
my  clerk  ?  If  it  had  been  me,  I  shouldn't  have  wondered  ;  for  I  don't  make  myself 
out  a  gentleman  (though  I  never  was  in  the  streets  either,  as  you  were,  according  to 
Micawber),  but  being  yoti ! — And  you  're  not  afraid  of  doing  this,  either  ?  You  don't 
think  at  all  of  what  I  shall  do,  in  return  ;  or  of  getting  yourself  into  trouble  for 
conspiracy  and  so  forth  ?  Very  well.  We  shall  see  !  Mr.  What  's-your-name,  you 
were  going  to  refer  some  question  to  Micawber.  There  's  your  referee.  Why  don't 
you  make  him  speak  ?     He  has  learnt  his  lesson,  I  see.' 

Seeing  that  what  he  said  had  no  effect  on  me  or  any  of  us,  he  sat  on  the  edge 
of  his  table  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  one  of  his  splay  feet  twisted  round  the 
other  leg,  waiting  doggedly  for  what  might  follow. 

Mr.  Micawber,  whose  impetuosity  I  had  restrained  thus  far  with  the  greatest 
difficulty,  and  who  had  repeatedly  interposed  with  the  first  syllable  of  ScouN-drel  ! 
without  getting  to  the  second,  now  burst  forward,  drew  the  ruler  from  his  breast 
(apparently  as  a  defensive  weapon),  and  produced  from  his  pocket  a  foolscap  docu- 
ment, folded  in  the  form  of  a  large  letter.  Opening  this  packet,  with  his  old  flourish, 
and  glancing  at  the  contents,  as  if  he  cherished  an  artistic  admiration  of  their  style  of 
composition,  he  began  to  read  as  follows — 

'  "  Dear  Miss  Trotwood  and  gentlemen "  ' 

'  Bless  and  save  the  man  !  '  exclaimed  my  aunt  in  a  low  voice.  '  He  'd  write 
letters  by  the  ream,  if  it  was  a  capital  offence  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber,  without  hearing  her,  went  on. 

'  "  In  appearing  before  you  to  denounce  probably  the  most  consummate  villain 
that  has  ever  existed,"  '  Mr.  Micawber,  without  looking  off  the  letter,  pointed  the 
ruler,  like  a  ghostly  truncheon,  at  Uriah  Heep,  '  "  I  ask  no  consideration  for  myself. 
The  victim,  from  my  cradle,  of  pecuniary  liabilities  to  which  I  have  been  unable  to 
respond,  I  have  ever  been  the  sport  and  toy  of  debasing  circumstances.  Ignominy, 
Want,  Despair,  and  Madness,  have,  collectively  or  separately,  been  the  attendants 
of  my  career."  ' 

The  relish  with  which  Mr.  Micawber  described  himself,  as  a  prey  to  these  dismal 
calamities,  was  only  to  be  equalled  by  the  emphasis  with  which  he  read  his  letter ; 
and  the  kind  of  homage  he  rendered  to  it  with  a  roll  of  his  head,  when  he  thought 
he  had  hit  a  sentence  very  hard  indeed. 

'  "  In  an  accumulation  of  Ignominy,  Want,  Despair,  and  Madness,  I  entered  the 
office — or,  as  oui  lively  neighbour  the  Gaul  would  term  it,  the  bureau — of  the  Firm, 
nominally  conducted  under  the  appellation  of  Wickfield  and — Heep,  but,  in  reality, 
wielded  by — Heep  alone.  Heep,  and  only  Heep,  is  the  mainspring  of  that  machine. 
Heep,  and  only  Heep,  is  the  Forger  and  the  Cheat."  ' 

Uriah,  more  blue  than  white  at  these  words,  made  a  dart  at  the  letter,  as  if  to 
tear  it  in  pieces.  Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  perfect  miracle  of  dexterity  or  luck, 
caught  his   advancing    knuckles   with    the   ruler,  and   disabled   his   right   hand.     It 


^  AsiST  AT  AN  EXPLOSION  489 

dropped  at  the  wrist,  as  if  ».ygj.g  j^joij^cn.     The  blow  sounded  as  it  it  had  fallen  on 


wood.  I 


'  The  Devil  take  you    ^^.^  Uriah,  writhing  in  a  new  way  with  pain.     '  I  '11  U 
even  with  you.' 

'  Approach  n^igain,  you — you — you  IIeei-  of  infamy,'  gasped  Mr.  Micawber, 
'  and  if  your  h|  j^  }nirnan,  I  '11  break  it.     Come  on,  come  on  !  ' 

I  think  ever  saw  anything  more  ridiculous — I  was  sensible  of  it,  even  at  the 
time — than  •.  Micawber  making  broadsword  guards  with  the  ruler,  and  crying, 
'  Come  on  'while  Traddles  and  I  pushed  him  back  into  a  corner,  from  which,  as 
often  as  vvot  him  into  it,  he  persisted  in  emerging  again. 

His  my,  muttering  to  himself,  after  wringing  his  wounded  hand  for  some 
time,  slc/  drew  off  his  neckerchief  and  bound  it  up  ;  then,  held  it  in  his  other  hand, 
and  saton  his  table  with  his  sullen  face  looking  down. 

IVTlicawber,  when  he  was  suflicicntly  cool,  proceeded  with  his  letter. 
'Jhe  stipendiary  emoluments  in  consideration  of  which  I  entered  into  the 
servjf — Heep,"  '  always  pausing  before  that  word  and  uttering  il  with  astonishing 
vig''  "  were  not  defined,  beyond  the  pittance,  of  twenty-two  shillings  and  six  per 
we  The  rest  was  left  contingent  on  the  value  of  my  professional  exertions  ;    in 
otand  more  expressive  words,  on  the  baseness  of  my  nature,  the  eu[)idity  of  my 
/ptives,  the  poverty  of  my  family,  the  general  moral  (or  rather  immoral)  resemblance 
i'^;ween  myself  and — Heep.     Need  I  say,  that  it  soon  became  necessary  for  me  to 
,.  licit  from — Heep — pecuniary   advances   towards   the   support   of   Mrs.   Micawber, 
y.nd  our  blighted  but  rising  family  !     Need  I  say  that  this  necessity  had  been  foreseen 
,/by — Heep  ?     That  those  advances  were  secured  by  I  O  U's  and  other  similar  acknow- 
ledgments, known  to  the  legal  institutions  of  this  country  ?     And  that  I  thus  became 
immeshed  in  the  web  he  had  spun  for  my  reception  ?  "  ' 

Mr.  Micawber's  enjoyment  of  his  epistolary  powers,  in  describing  this  unfortunate 
state  of  things,  really  seemed  to  outweigh  any  pain  or  anxiety  that  the  reality  could 
have  caused  him.     He  read  on  — 

'  "  Then  it  was  that — Heep — began  to  favour  me  with  just  so  much  of  his  con- 
fidence, as  was  necessary  to  the  discharge  of  his  infernal  business.  Then  it  was  that  I 
began,  if  I  may  so  Shakespearianly  express  myself,  to  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine.  I 
found  that  my  services  were  constantly  called  into  requisition  for  the  falsification  of 

I  business,  and  the  mystification  of  an  individual  whom  I  will  designate  as  Mr.  W. 
That  Mr.  W.  was  imposed  upon,  kept  in  ignorance,  and  deluded,  in  every  possible 
way  ;  yet,  that  all  this  while,  the  ruffian — Heep — was  professing  unbounded  gratitude 
to,  and  unbounded  friendship  for,  that  much-abused  gentleman.  This  was  bad 
enough  ;  but,  as  the  philosophic  Dane  observes,  with  that  universal  applicability 
which  distinguishes  the  illustrious  ornament  of  the  Elizabethan  Era,  worse  remains 
behind  !  "  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  was  so  very  much  struck  by  this  happy  rounding  off  with  a 
quotation,  that  he  indulged  himself,  and  us,  with  a  second  reading  of  the  sentence, 
under  pretence  of  having  lost  his  place. 

'  "  It  is  not  my  intention,"  '  he  continued,  reading  on,  '  "  to  enter  on  a  detailed 
list,  within  the  compass  of  the  present  epistle  (though  it  is  ready  elsewhere),  of  the 
'various  mal-practices  of  a  minor  nature,  affecting  the  individual  whom  I  have 
(denominated  Mr.  W.,  to  which  I  have  been  a  tacitly  consenting  party.  My  object, 
»when  the  contest  within  myself  between  stipend  and  no  stipend,  baker  and  no  baker, 

tt2 


490  DAVID  COPPERFIEL^ 

existence  and  non-existence,  ceased,  was  to  take  advar^^  ^'  ^Y  opportunities  to 
discover  and  expose  the  major  mal-practices  committeu*^  .  *"  gentleman's  grievous 
wrong  and  injury,  by — Heep.  Stimulated  by  the  silent  rn\'''°^  within,  and  by  a  no 
less  touching  and  appealing  monitor  without — to  whom  I  will  Ix^y  '"efer  as  Miss  W. 
— I  entered  on  a  not  unlaborious  task  of  clandestine  investigatioiP^otracted  now, 
to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  information,  and  belief,  over  a  period  exuding  twelve 
calendar  months."  ' 

He  read  this  passage,  as  if  it  were  from  an  Act  of  Parliament;    ai appeared 
majestically  refreshed  by  the  sound  of  the  words. 

My  charges  against — Heep,"  '  he  read  on,  glancing  at  him,  and  diing  the 
ruler  into  a  convenient  position  imder  his  left  arm,  in  case  of  need,  '  "  are  as  pws."  ' 

We  all  held  our  breath,  I  think.     I  am  sure  Uriah  held  his. 

'  "  First,"  '  said  Mr.  Micawber,     '  "  When  Mr.  W.'s  faculties  and  mem  for 
business  became,  through  causes  into  which  it  is  not  necessary  or  expedient  for  to 
enter,  weakened  and  confused, — Heep — designedly  perplexed  and  complicateoe 
whole  of  the  official  transactions.     When  Mr.  W.  was  least  fit  to  enter  on  busines- 
Heep  was  always  at  hand  to  force  him  to  enter  on  it.     He  obtained  Mr.  W.'s  signat 
imder  such  circumstances  to  documents  of  importance,  representing  them  to  be  oti 
•documents  of  no  importance.     He  induced  Mr.  W.  to  empower  him  to  draw  out,  thi 
one  particular  sum  of  trust-money,  amounting  to  twelve  six  fourteen,  two  and  niri 
and  employed  it  to  meet  pretended  business  charges  and  deficiencies  which  were  eithA 
already  provided  for,  or  had  never  really  existed.     He  gave  this  proceeding,  througm 
out,  the  appearance  of  having  originated  in  Mr.  W.'s  own  dishonest  intention,  and  oi^ 
having  been  accomplished  by  Mr.  W.'s  own  dishonest  act ;   and  has  used  it,  ever  since, 
to  torture  and  constrain  him."  ' 

'  You  shall  prove  this,  you  Copperfield  !  '  said  Uriah,  with  a  threatening  shake 
of  the  head.     '  All  in  good  time  !  ' 

'  Ask — Heep — Mr.  Traddles,  who  lived  in  his  house  after  him,'  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
breaking  off  from  the  letter  ;    '  will  you  ?  ' 

'  The  fool  himself — and  lives  there  now,'  said  Uriah,  disdainfully. 

'  Ask — Heep — if  he  ever  kept  a  pocket-book  in  that  house,'  said  Mr.  Micawber  ; 
'  will  you  ?  ' 

I  saw.  Uriah's  lank  hand  stop,  involuntarily,  in  the  scraping  of  his  chin. 

'  Or  ask  him,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  if  he  ever  burnt  one  there.  If  he  says  Yes, 
and  asks  you  where  the  ashes  are,  refer  him  to  Wilkins  Micawber,  and  he  will  hear  of 
something  not  at  all  to  his  advantage  !  ' 

The  triumphant  flourish  with  which  Mr.  Micawber  delivered  himself  of  these 
words,  had  a  powerful  effect  in  alarming  the  mother ;  who  cried  out  in  much 
agitation — 

'  Ury,  Ury  !     Be  umble,  and  make  terms,  my  dear  !  ' 

'  Mother  !  '  he  retorted,  '  will  you  keep  quiet  ?  You  're  in  a  fright,  and  don't 
know  what  you  say  or  mean.  Umble  !  '  he  repeated,  looking  at  me,  with  a  snarl ; 
'  I  've  umbled  some  of  'em  for  a  pretty  long  time  back,  umble  as  I  was  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber,  genteelly  adjusting  his  chin  in  his  cravat,  presently  proceeded  with 
his  composition. 

'  "  Second.  Heep  has,  on  several  occasions,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  infor- 
mation, and  belief "  ' 


'  But  that  won't  do,'  muttered  Uriah,  relieved.     '  Mother,  you  keep  quiet.' 


I 


I  ASSIST  AT  AN  EXPLOSION  49i 

Wc  will  endeavour  to  provide  sornethirifj  tliat  wiii.  do,  ;uid  do  for  you  (inully, 
sir,  very  shortly,'  replied  iMi'.  Mieawlier. 

'  "  Seeoiul.  IIeep  has,  on  several  oeeasions,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledf,'e, 
information,  and  belief,  systcmatieally  forjred,  to  various  entries,  books,  and  doeu- 
ments,  the  signature  of  Mr.  W.  ;  and  Jias  distinelly  done  so  in  one  instanee,  eapable 
of  proof  by  me.     To  wit,  in  manner  following,  that  is  to  say  "  '  : 

Again,  Mr.  Mieawber  bad  a  relish  in  this  formal  piling  up  of  words,  wliieb,  how- 
ever ludierously  displayed  in  his  ease,  was,  I  must  say,  not  at  all  peeuliar  to  him.  I 
have  observed  it,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  in  numbers  of  men.  It  seems  to  me  to  be 
a  general  rule.  In  the  taking  of  legal  oaths,  for  instance,  deponents  seem  to  enjoy 
themselves  mightily  when  they  come  to  several  good  words  in  succession,  for  the 
expression  of  one  idea ;  as,  that  they  utterly  detest,  abominate,  and  abjure,  or  so 
forth  ;  and  the  old  anathemas  were  made  relishing  on  the  same  principle.  We  talk 
about  the  tyranny  of  words,  but  wc  like  to  tyrannise  over  them  too  ;  we  are  fond 
of  having  a  large  superfluous  cslablislunent  of  words  to  wait  ujjon  us  on  great  oeeasions  ; 
we  think  it  looks  important,  and  sounds  well.  As  we  are  not  particular  about  the 
meaning  of  our  liveries  on  state  occasions,  if  they  be  but  fine  and  numerous  enough, 
so,  the  meaning  or  necessity  of  our  words  is  a  secondary  consideration,  if  there  \>c  but 
a  great  parade  of  them.  And  as  individuals  get  into  trouble  by  making  too  great  a 
show  of  liveries,  or  as  slaves  when  they  are  too  numerous  rise  against  their  masters, 
so  I  think  I  could  mention  a  nation  tliat  has  got  into  many  great  difliculties,  and  will 
get  into  many  greater,  from  maintaining  too  large  a  retinue  of  words. 

Mr.  Mieawber  read  on,  almost  smacking  his  lips — 

'  "  To  wit,  in  manner  following,  that  is  to  say.  Mr.  W.  being  infirm,  and  it  being 
within  the  bounds  of  probability  that  his  decease  might  lead  to  some  discoveries,  and 
to  the  downfall  of — Heep's — power  over  the  W.  family, — as  I,  Wilkins  Mieawber, 
the  undersigned,  assume — unless  the  filial  affection  of  his  daughter  could  be  secretly 
influenced  from  allowing  any  investigation  of  the  partnership  affairs  to  be  ever  made, 
the  said— Heep — deemed  it  expedient  to  have  a  bond  ready  by  him,  as  from  Mr.  W., 
for  the  before-mentioned  sum  of  twelve  six  fourteen,  two  and  nine,  with  interest, 
stated  therein  to  have  been  advanced  by — Heep — to  Mr.  W.  to  save  Mr.  VV.  from 
dishonour  ;  though  really  the  sum  was  never  advanced  by  him,  and  has  long  been 
replaced.  The  signatures  to  this  instrument,  purporting  to  be  executed  by  Mr.  W. 
and  attested  by  Wilkins  Mieawber,  are  forgeries  by — Heep.  I  have,  in  my  possession, 
in  his  hand  and  pocket-book,  several  similar  imitations  of  Mr.  W.'s  signature,  here  and 
there  defaced  by  fire,  but  legible  to  any  one.  I  never  attested  any  such  document. 
And  I  have  the  document  itself,  in  my  possession."  ' 

Uriah  Heep,  with  a  start,  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  bunch  of  keys,  and  opened  a 
certain  drawer  ;  then,  suddenly  bethought  himself  of  what  he  was  about,  and  turned 
again  towards  us,  without  looking  in  it. 

'  "  And  I  have  the  document,"  '  Mr.  Mieawber  read  again,  looking  about 
as  if  it  were  the  text  of  a  sermon,  '  "  in  my  possession," — that  is  to  say,  I  had, 
early  this  morning,  when  this  was  written,  but  have  since  relinquished  it  to  Mr. 
Traddles.' 

'  It  is  quite  true,'  assented  Traddles. 

'  Ury,  Ury  !  '  cried  the  mother,  '  be  umble  and  make  terms.  I  know  my  son 
will  be  umble,  gentlemen,  if  you  '11  give  him  time  to  think.  Mr.  C'opperfield,  I  'm  sure 
you  know  that  he  was  always  very  umble,  sir  !  ' 


492  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

It  was  singular  to  see  how  the  mother  still  held  to  the  old  trick,  when  the  son  had 
abandoned  it  as  useless. 

'  Mother,'  he  said,  with  an  impatient  bite  at  the  handkerchief  in  which  his  hand 
was  wrapped,  '  you  had  better  take  and  fire  a  loaded  gun  at  me.' 

'  But  I  love  you,  Vry,'  cried  Mrs.  Heep.  And  I  have  no  doubt  she  did  ;  or  that 
he  loved  her,  however  strange  it  may  appear  ;  though,  to  be  sure,  they  were  a  congenial 
couple.  '  And  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  provoking  the  gentleman,  and  endangering 
of  yourself  more.  I  told  the  gentleman  at  first,  when  he  told  me  upstairs  it  was  come 
to  light,  that  I  would  answer  for  your  being  umble,  and  making  amends.  Oh,  see 
how  umble  I  am,  gentlemen,  and  don't  mind  him  !  ' 

'  Why,  there  's  Copperfield,  mother,'  he  angrily  retorted,  pointing  his  lean  finger 
at  me,  against  whom  all  his  animosity  was  levelled,  as  the  prime  mover  in  the  dis- 
covery ;  and  I  did  not  undeceive  him ;  '  there  's  Copperfield,  would  have  given  you  a 
hundred  pound  to  say  less  than  you  've  blurted  out  !  ' 

'  I  can't  help  it,  Ury,'  cried  his  mother.     '  I  can't  see  you  running  into  danger, 
through  carrying  your  head  so  high.     Better  be  umble,  as  you  always  was.' 

He  remained  for  a  little,  biting  the  handkerchief,  and  then  said  to  me  with  a  scowl — 

'  What  more  have  you  got  to  bring  forward  ?  If  anything,  go  on  with  it.  What 
do  you  look  at  me  for  ?  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  promptly  resumed  his  letter,  glad  to  revert  to  a  performance  with 
which  he  was  so  highly  satisfied. 

'  "  Third.  And  last.  I  am  now  in  a  condition  to  show,  by — Heep's — false 
books,  and — Heep's — real  memoranda,  beginning  with  the  partially  destroyed  pocket- 
book  (which  I  was  unable  to  comprehend,  at  the  time  of  its  accidental  discovery  by 
Mrs.  Micawber,  on  our  taking  possession  of  our  present  abode,  in  the  locker  or  bin 
devoted  to  the  reception  of  the  ashes  calcined  on  our  domestic  hearth),  that  the 
weaknesses,  the  faults,  the  very  virtues,  the  parental  affections,  and  the  sense  of 
honour,  of  the  unhappy  Mr.  W.  have  been  for  years  acted  on  by,  and  warped  to  the 
base  purposes  of — Heep.  That  Mr.  W.  has  been  for  years  deluded  and  plundered, 
in  every  conceivable  manner,  to  the  pecuniary  aggrandisement  of  the  avaricious, 
false,  and  grasping — Heep.  That  the  engrossing  object  of — Heep — was,  next  to  gain, 
to  subdue  Mr.  and  Miss  W.  (of  his  ulterior  views  in  reference  to  the  latter  I  say  nothing) 
entirely  to  himself.  That  his  last  act,  completed  but  a  few  months  since,  was  to  induce 
Mr.  W.  to  execute  a  relinquishment  of  his  share  in  the  partnership,  and  even  a  bill  of 
sale  on  the  very  furniture  of  his  house,  in  consideration  of  a  certain  annuity,  to  be 
well  and  truly  paid  by — Heep — on  the  four  common  quarter-days  in  each  and  every 
year.  That  these  meshes  ;  beginning  with  alarming  and  falsified  accounts  of  the 
estate  of  which  Mr.  W.  is  the  receiver,  at  a  period  when  Mr.  W.  had  launched  into 
imprudent  and  ill-judged  speculations,  and  may  not  have  had  the  money,  for  which 
he  was  morally  and  legally  responsible,  in  hand  ;  going  on  with  pretended  borrowings 
of  money  at  enormous  interest,  really  coming  from — Heep — and  by — Heep — fraudu- 
lently obtained  or  withheld  from  Mr.  W.  himself,  on  pretence  of  such  speculations  or 
otherwise  ;  perpetuated  by  a  miscellaneous  catalogue  of  unscrupulous  chicaneries — 
gradually  thickened,  until  the  unhappy  Mr.  W.  could  see  no  world  beyond.  Bankrupt, 
as  he  believed,  alike  in  circumstances,  in  all  other  hope,  and  in  honour,  his  sole  reliance 
was  upon  the  monster  in  the  garb  of  man,"  ' — Mr.  Micawber  made  a  good  deal  of  this, 
as  a  new  turn  of  expression, — '  "  who,  by  making  himself  necessary  to  him,  had  achieved 
his  destruction.     All  this  I  undertake  to  show.     Probably  much  more  !  "  ' 


I  ASSFST  AT  AN    IIX  PLOSION  498 

I  whispered  a  few  words  to  Ajjnes,  who  w;is  wecpiriff,  lialf  joyfully,  half  sorrow- 
fully, at  my  side  ;  and  there  was  a  movement  among  us,  as  if  Mr.  Mieawher  had 
finished.  He  said,  with  execcding  gravity,  '  Pardon  me,'  and  proceeded,  with  a 
mixture  of  the  lowest  spirits  and  the  most  intense  enjoyment,  to  the  peroration  of 
his  letter. 

'  "  I  have  now  concluded.  It  merely  remains  for  me  to  substantiate  these 
accusations  ;  and  then,  with  my  ill-starred  family,  to  disappear  from  the  landscape 
on  which  we  appear  to  be  an  incumbrance.  That  is  soon  done.  It  may  be  reasonably 
inferred  that  our  baby  will  (irst  oxi)ire  of  inanition,  as  IxMiifj  the  frailest  member  of  our 
circle  ;  and  that  our  twins  will  follow  next  in  order.  So  be  it !  For  myself,  my 
Canterbury  Pilgrimage  has  done  much  ;  imprisonment  on  civil  process,  and  want, 
will  soon  do  more.  I  trust  that  the  labour  and  hazard  of  an  investigation — of  which 
the  smallest  results  have  been  slowly  pieced  together,  in  the  pressure  of  arduous 
avocations,  under  grinding  penurious  apprehensions,  at  rise  of  morn,  at  dewy  eve, 
in  the  shadows  of  night,  under  the  watchful  eye  of  one  whom  it  were  superfluous  to 
call  Demon — combined  with  the  struggle  of  parental  Poverty  to  turn  it,  when  com- 
pleted, to  the  right  account,  may  be  as  the  sprinkling  of  a  few  drops  of  sweet  water  on 
my  funereal  pyre.  I  ask  no  more.  Let  it  be,  in  justice,  merely  said  of  me,  as  of  a 
gallant  and  eminent  naval  Hero,  with  whom  I  have  no  pretensions  to  cope,  that  what 
I  have  done,  I  did,  in  despite  of  mercenary  and  selfish  objects, 

'  For  England,  lioine,  and  beauty.' 
'  "  Remaining  always,  etc.,  etc.,  Wilkins  Micawber."  ' 

Much  affected,  but  still  intensely  enjoying  himself,  Mr.  Micawber  folded  up  his 
letter,  and  handed  it  with  a  bow  to  my  aunt,  as  something  she  might  like  to  keep. 

There  was,  as  I  had  noticed  on  my  first  visit  long  ago,  an  iron  safe  in  the  room. 
The  key  was  in  it.  A  hasty  suspicion  seemed  to  strike  Uriah  ;  and,  with  a  glance  at 
Mr.  IMicawber,  he  went  to  it,  and  threw  the  doors  clanking  open.     It  was  empty. 

'  Where  are  the  books  ?  '  he  cried,  with  a  frightful  face.  '  Some  thief  has  stolen 
the  books  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  tapped  himself  with  the  ruler.  '  /  did,  when  I  got  the  key  from  jou 
as  usual — but  a  little  earlier — and  opened  it  this  morning.' 

'  Don't  be  uneasy,'  said  Traddles.  '  They  have  come  into  my  possession.  I 
will  take  care  of  them,  under  the  authority  I  mentioned.' 

'  You  receive  stolen  goods,  do  you  ?  '    cried  Uriah. 

'  Under  such  circumstances,'  answered  Traddles,  '  yes.' 

What  was  my  astonishment  when  I  beheld  my  aunt,  who  had  been  profoundly 
quiet  and  attentive,  make  a  dart  at  Uriah  Heep,  and  seize  him  by  the  collar  with  both 
hands ! 

'  You  know  what  I  want  ?  '   said  my  aunt. 

'  A  strait-waistcoat,'  said  he. 

'  No.  My  property  !  '  returned  my  aunt.  '  Agnes,  my  dear,  as  long  as  I  believed 
it  had  been  really  made  away  with  by  your  father,  I  wouldn't — and,  my  dear,  I  didn't, 
even  to  Trot,  as  he  knows — breathe  a  syllable  of  its  ha\nng  been  placed  here  for  invest- 
ment. But,  now  I  know  this  fellow's  answerable  for  it,  and  I  '11  have  it  !  Trot,  come 
and  take  it  away  from  him  !  ' 

Wiethcr  my  aunt  supposed,  for  the  moment,  that  he  kept  her  property  in  his 


494  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

neckerchief,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  ;  but  she  certainly  pulled  at  it  as  if  she  thought 
so.  I  hastened  to  put  myself  between  theni,  and  to  assure  her  that  we  would  all  take 
care  that  he  should  make  the  utmost  restitution  of  everything  he  had  wrongly  got. 
This,  and  a  few  moments'  reflection,  pacified  her  ;  but  she  was  not  at  all  disconcerted 
by  what  she  had  done  (though  I  cannot  say  as  much  for  her  bonnet),  and  resumed  her 
seat  composedly. 

During  the  last  few  minutes,  Mrs.  Heep  had  been  clamouring  to  her  son  to  be 
'  umble  '  ;  and  had  been  going  down  on  her  knees  to  all  of  us  in  succession,  and 
making  the  wildest  promises.  Her  son  sat  her  down  in  his  chair  ;  and,  standing 
sulkily  by  her,  holding  her  arm  with  his  hand,  but  not  rudely,  said  to  me,  with  a 
ferocious  look — 

'  What  do  you  want  done  ?  ' 

'  I  will  tell  you  what  must  be  done,'  said  Traddles. 

'  Has  that  Copperfield  no  tongue  ?  '  muttered  Uriah.  '  I  would  do  a  good  deal 
for  you  if  you  could  tell  me,  without  lying,  that  somebody  had  cut  it  out.' 

'  My  Uriah  means  to  be  umble  !  '  cried  his  mother.  '  Don't  mind  what  he  says, 
good  gentlemen  !  ' 

'  What  must  be  done,'  said  Traddles,  '  is  this.  First,  the  deed  of  relinquishment, 
that  we  have  heard  of,  must  be  given  over  to  me  now — here.' 

'  Suppose  I  haven't  got  it,'  he  interrupted. 

'  But  you  have,'  said  Traddles  ;  '  therefore,  you  know,  we  won't  suppose  so.' 
And  I  cannot  help  avowing  that  this  was  the  first  occasion  on  which  I  really  did  justice 
to  the  clear  head,  and  the  plain,  patient,  practical  good  sense,  of  my  old  schoolfellow. 
'  Then.'  said  Traddles,  '  you  must  prepare  to  disgorge  all  that  your  rapacity  has 
become  possessed  of,  and  to  make  restoration  to  the  last  farthing.  All  the  partner- 
ship books  and  papers  must  remain  in  our  possession  ;  all  your  books  and  papers  ; 
all  money  accounts  and  securities,  of  both  kinds.     In  short,  everything  here.' 

'  Must  it  ?  I  don't  know  that,'  said  Uriah.  '  I  must  have  time  to  think  about 
that.' 

'  Certainly,'  replied  Traddles  ;  '  but,  in  the  meanwhile,  and  until  everything  is 
done  to  our  satisfaction,  we  shall  maintain  possession  of  these  things  ;  and  beg  you — 
in  short,  compel  you — to  keep  your  own  room,  and  hold  no  communication  with 
any  one.' 

'  I  won't  do  it  !  '    said  Uriah,  with  an  oath. 

'  Maidstone  Jail  is  a  safer  place  of  detention,'  observed  Traddles  ;  '  and  though 
the  law  may  be  longer  in  righting  us,  and  may  not  be  able  to  right  us  so  completely 
as  you  can,  there  is  no  doubt  of  its  punishing  you.  'Dear  me,  you  know  that  quite  as 
well  as  I  !  Copperfield,  will  you  go  round  to  the  Guildhall,  and  bring  a  couple  of 
officers  ?  ' 

Here,  Mrs.  Heep  broke  out  again,  crying  on  her  knees  to  Agnes  to  interfere  in 
their  behalf,  exclaiming  that  he  was  very  humble,  and  it  was  all  true,  and  if  he  didn't 
do  what  we  wanted,  she  would,  and  much  more  to  the  same  purpose  ;  being  half 
frantic  with  fears  for  her  darling.  To  inquire  what  he  might  have  done,  if  he  had  had 
any  boldness,  would  be  like  inquiring  what  a  mongrel  cur  might  do,  if  it  had  the  spirit 
of  a  tiger.  He  was  a  coward,  from  head  to  foot ;  and  showed  his  dastardly  nature 
through  his  sullenness  and  mortification,  as  much  as  at  any  time  of  his  mean  life. 

'  Stop  !  '  he  growled  to  me  ;  and  wiped  his  hot  face  with  his  hand.  '  Mother, 
hold  your  noise.     Well  !     Let  'em  have  that  deed.     Go  and  fetch  it  !  ' 


r  ASSIST  AT  AN  EXPLOSION  4'J5 

'  Do  you  help  her,  Mr.  Dick,'  said  Traddles,  '  if  you  plcusc' 

Proud  of  his  commission,  and  undcrslunding  it,  Mr.  Dick  accompanied  her  as  a 
shepherd's  doj,'  might  accompany  a  sheep.  But,  Mrs.  Ileep  gave  him  little  trouble  ; 
for  she  not  only  returned  with  the  deed,  hut  with  the  box  in  which  it  was,  where  we 
found  a  hankor's  hook  and  sonic  other  jjapcrs  that  were  afterwards  servieeahlc. 

'  Good  I  '  said  Traddles,  when  this  was  brought.  '  Now,  Mr.  Ilecp,  you  can 
retire  to  think  :  j)arUcularly  observing,  if  you  j)leuse,  that  I  declare  to  you,  on  the 
part  of  all  present,  that  there  is  oidy  one  thing  to  be  done  ;  that  it  is  what  I  have 
explained  ;  and  that  it  must  be  done  without  delay.' 

Uriah,  without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  shuffled  across  the  room  with  his 
hand  to  his  chin,  and  pausing  at  the  door,  said — 

'  Copperfield,  I  have  always  hated  you.  You  've  always  been  an  ufjstart,  and 
you  've  always  been  against  me.' 

'  As  I  think  I  told  you  once  before,'  said  I,  '  it  is  you  who  have  been,  in  your  greed 
and  cunning,  against  all  the  world.  It  may  be  profitable  to  you  to  reflect,  in  future, 
that  there  never  were  greed  and  cunning  in  the  world  yet,  that  did  not  do  too  much, 
and  overreach  themselves.     It  is  as  certain  as  death.' 

'  Or  as  certain  as  they  used  to  teach  at  school  (the  same  school  where  I  picked  up 
so  much  umbleness),  from  nine  o'clock  to  eleven,  that  labour  was  a  curse  ;  and  from 
eleven  o'clock  to  one,  that  it  was  a  blessing  and  a  cheerfulness,  and  a  dignity,  and  I 
don't  know  what  all,  eh  ?  '  said  he  with  a  sneer.  '  You  preach,  about  as  consistent  as 
they  did.  Won't  umbleness  go  down  ?  I  shouldn't  have  got  round  my  gentleman 
fellow-partner  without  it,  I  think. — Micawber,  you  old  bully,  I  '11  pay  yuu  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber,  supremely  defiant  of  him  and  his  extended  finger,  and  making  a 
great  deal  of  his  chest  until  he  had  slunk  out  at  the  door,  then  addressed  himself  to 
nie,  and  proffered  me  the  satisfaction  of  '  witnessing  the  rc-estal)lishment  of  mutual 
confidence  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Micawber.'  After  which,  he  invited  the  company 
generally  to  the  contemplation  of  that  affecting  spectacle. 

'  The  veil  that  has  long  been  interposed  between  Mrs.  Micawber  and  myself,  is 
now  withdrawn,'  said  Mr.  Micawber  ;  '  and  my  children  and  the  Author  of  their  Being 
can  once  more  come  in  contact  on  equal  terms.' 

As  we  were  all  very  grateful  to  him,  and  all  desirous  to  show  that  we  were,  as  well 
as  the  hurry  and  disorder  of  our  spirits  would  permit.  I  dare  say  we  should  all  have 
gone,  but  that  it  was  necessary  for  Agnes  to  return  to  her  father,  as  yet  unable  to  bear 
more  than  the  dawn  of  hope  ;  and  for  some  one  else  to  hold  Uriah  in  safe  keeping. 
So  Traddles  remained  for  the  latter  purpose,  to  be  presently  relieved  by  Mr.  Dick  ; 
and  Mr.  Dick,  my  aunt,  and  I,  went  home  with  Mr.  Micawber.  As  I  parted  hurriedly 
from  the  dear  girl  to  whom  I  owed  so  much,  and  thought  from  what  she  had  been 
saved,  perhaps,  that  morning — her  better  resolution  notwithstanding — I  felt  devoutly 
thankful  for  the  miseries  of  my  younger  days  which  had  brought  me  to  the  knowledge 
of  Mr.  Micawber. 

His  house  was  not  far  off ;  and  as  the  street-door  opened  into  the  sitting-room, 
and  he  bolted  in  with  a  precipitation  quite  his  own,  we  found  ourselves  at  once  in  the 
bosom  of  the  family.  Mr.  Micawber  exclaiming,  '  Emma  !  my  life  !  '  rushed  into 
Mrs.  Micawber's  arms.  Mrs.  Micawber  shrieked,  and  folded  Mr.  Micawber  in  her 
embrace.  ]\Iiss  Micawber,  nursing  the  unconscious  stranger  of  Mrs.  Micawber's  last 
letter  to  me,  was  sensibly  affected.  The  stranger  leaped.  The  twins  testified  their 
joy  by  several  inconvenient  but  innocent  demonstrations.     Master  Micawber,  whose 


496 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD 


disposition  appeared  to  have  been  soured  by  early  disappointment,  and  whose  aspect 
had  become  morose,  yielded  to  his  better  feelings,  and  blubbered. 

'  Emma  !  '  said  Mr.  Micawber.  '  The  cloud  is  past  from  my  mind.  Mutual 
confidence,  so  long  preserved  between  us  once,  is  restored,  to  know  no  further  inter- 
ruption. Now,  welcome  poverty  !  '  cried  Mr.  Micawber,  shedding  tears.  '  Welcome 
misery,  welcome  houselessness,  welcome  hunger,  rags,  tempest,  and  beggary  ! 
jVIutual  confidence  will  sustain  us  to  the  end  !  ' 

With  these  expressions,  Mr.  Micawber  placed  Mrs.  Micawber  in  a  chair,  and 
embraced  the  family  all  round  ;  welcoming  a  variety  of  bleak  prospects,  wliich 
appeared,  to  the  best  of  my  judgment,  to  be  anything  but  welcome  to  them  ;  and 
calling  upon  them  to  come  out  into  Canterbury  and  sing  a  chorus,  as  nothing  else 
was  left  for  their  support. 

But  INIrs.  Micawber  having,  in  the  strength  of  her  emotions,  fainted  away,  the 
first  thing  to  be  done,  even  before  the  chorus  could  be  considered  complete,  was  to 
recover  her.  This,  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Micawber  did  ;  and  then  my  auiat  was  intro- 
duced, and  Mrs.  Micawber  recognised  me. 

'  Excuse  me,  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  the  poor  lady,  giving  me  her  hand,  '  but 
I  am  not  strong  ;  and  the  removal  of  the  late  misunderstanding  between  Mr.  Micawber 
and  myself  was  at  first  too  much  for  me.' 

'  Is  this  all  your  family,  ma'am  ?  '    said  my  aunt. 

'  There  are  no  more  at  present,'  returned  Mrs.  Micawber. 

'  Good  gracious,  I  didn't  mean  that,  ma'am,'  said  my  aunt.  '  I  mean  are  all 
these  yours  ?  ' 

'  Madam,'  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  '  it  is  a  true  bill.' 

'  And  that  eldest  young  gentleman,  now,'  said  my  aunt  musing.  '  'What  has  he 
been  brought  up  to  ?  ' 

'  It  was  my  hope  when  I  came  here,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  to  have  got  Wilkins 
into  the  Church  :  or  perhaps  I  shall  express  my  meaning  more  strictly,  if  I  say  the 
Choir.  But  there  was  no  vacancy  for  a  tenor  in  the  venerable  Pile  for  which  this  city 
is  so  justly  eminent ;  and  he  has — in  short,  he  has  contracted  a  habit  of  singing  in 
public-houses,  rather  than  in  sacred  edifices.' 

'  But  he  means  well,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  tenderly. 

'  I  dare  say,  my  love,'  rejoined  Mr.  Micawber,  '  that  he  means  particularly  well  ; 
but  I  have  not  yet  found  that  he  carries  out  his  meaning,  in  any  given  direction 
whatsoever.' 

Master  Micawber's  moroseness  of  aspect  returned  upon  him  again,  and  he 
demanded,  with  some  temper,  what  he  was  to  do  ?  \^Tiether  he  had  been  born  a 
carpenter,  or  a  coach-painter,  any  more  than  he  had  been  born  a  bird  ?  Whether 
he  could  go  into  the  next  street,  and  open  a  chemist's  shop  ?  \Miether  he  could 
rush  to  the  next  assizes,  and  proclaim  himself  a  lawyer  ?  WTiether  he  could  come 
out  by  force  at  the  opera,  and  succeed  by  violence  ?  Whether  he  could  do  anything, 
without  being  brought  up  to  something  ? 

My  aunt  mused  a  little  while,  and  then  said — 

'  Mr.  Micawber,  I  wonder  you  have  never  turned  your  thoughts  to  emigration.' 

'  Madam,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  '  it  was  the  dream  of  my  youth,  and  the 
fallacious  aspiration  of  my  riper  years.'  I  am  thoroughly  persuaded,  by  the  bye, 
that  he  had  never  thought  of  it  in  his  life. 

'  Aye  ?  '    said  my  aunt,  with  a  glance  at  me.     '  Why,  what  a  thing  it  %vould  be 


\   ASSIST  AT  AN    I :X  PLOSION  497 

for  yourselves  and  your  fiuaily,  .Mr.  ;md  Mrs.  Micawljcr,  if  }ou  were  to  emigrate 
now.' 

'  Capital,  iiKidani,  oapital,'  urj,'ed  Mr.  Micawhcr,  ^doomily. 

'  TJiat  is  the  principal,  I  may  say  the  only  dillieulty,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,' 
assented  his  wife. 

'  Capital  ?  '  eried  my  aimt.  '  lint  you  are  doinj^  \is  a  great  service — have  done 
us  a  great  service,  I  may  say,  for  surely  much  will  come  out  of  the  fire — and  what 
could  we  do  for  you,  that  would  he  half  so  good  as  to  find  the  capital  ?  ' 

'  I  could  not  receive  it  as  a  gift,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  full  of  fire  and  animation, 
'  l)ut  if  a  sudicient  sum  could  he  advanced,  say  at  five  per  cent,  interest  [)er  annum, 
upon  my  personal  liahility — say  my  notes  of  hand,  at  twelve,  eighteen,  and  twenty- 
four  months,  respectively,  to  allow  time  for  something  to  turn  up ' 

'  Could  he  ?  Can  he  and  shall  he,  on  yotir  own  terms,'  returned  my  aunt,  '  if 
you  say  the  word.  Think  of  this  now,  hoth  of  you.  Here  are  some  people  David 
knows,  going  out  to  Australia  shortly.  If  you  decide  to  go,  why  shouldn't  you  go  in 
the  same  ship  ?  You  may  help  each  other.  Think  of  this  now,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Micawber.     Take  your  time,  and  weigh  it  well.' 

'  There  is  but  one  question,  my  dear  ma'am,  I  could  wish  to  ask,'  said  Mrs. 
Micawber.     '  The  climate,  I  believe,  is  healthy  ?  ' 

'  Finest  in  the  world  !  '    said  my  aunt. 

'  Just  so,'  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  '  Then  my  question  arises.  Now,  are  the 
circumstances  of  the  country  such,  that  a  man  of  Mr.  Micawber's  abilities  would  have 
a  fair  chance  of  rising  in  the  social  scale  ?  I  will  not  say,  at  present,  might  he  aspire 
to  be  Governor,  or  anything  of  that  sort ;  but  would  there  be  a  reasonable  opening  for 
his  talents  to  develop  themselves — that,  would  be  amply  sufficient — and  find  their 
own  expansion  ?  ' 

'  No  better  opening  anywhere,'  said  my  aunt,  '  for  a  man  who  conducts  himself 
well,  and  is  industrious.' 

'  For  a  man  who  conducts  himself  Avell,'  repeated  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  her  clearest 
business  manner,  '  and  is  industrious.  Precisely.  It  is  evident  to  me  that  Australia 
is  the  legitimate  sphere  of  action  for  Mr.  Micawber  !  ' 

'  I  entertain  the  conviction,  my  dear  madam,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  that  it  is, 
under  existing  circumstances,  the  land,  the  only  land,  for  myself  and  familj' ;  and 
that  something  of  an  extraordinary  nature  will  turn  up  on  that  shore.  It  is  no 
distance — comparatively  speaking  ;  and  though  consideration  is  due  to  the  kindness 
of  your  proposal,  I  assure  you  that  is  a  mere  matter  of  form.' 

Shall  I  ever  forget  how,  in  a  moment,  he  was  the  most  sanguine  of  men,  looking 
on  to  fortune  ;  or  how  Mrs.  Micawber  presently  discoursed  about  the  habits  of  the 
kangaroo  !  Shall  I  ever  recall  that  street  of  Canterbury  on  a  market-day,  without 
recalling  him,  as  he  walked  back  with  us  ;  expressing,  in  the  hardy  roving  manner 
he  assumed,  the  unsettled  habits  of  a  temporary  sojourner  in  the  land  ;  and  looking 
at  the  bullocks,  as  they  came  by,  with  the  eye  of  an  Australian  farmer  ! 


CHAPTER    LIII 

ANOTHER    RETROSPECT 

I  MUST  pause  yet  once  again.  Oh,  my  child-wife,  there  is  a  figure  in  the  moving 
crowd  before  my  memory,  quiet  and  still,  saying  in  its  innocent  love  and 
childish  beauty,  Stop  to  think  of  me — turn  to  look  upon  the  Little  Blossom, 
as  it  flutters  to  the  ground  ! 

I  do.  All  else  grows  dim,  and  fades  away.  I  am  again  with  Dora,  in  our 
cottage.  I  do  not  know  how  long  she  has  been  ill.  I  am  so  used  to  it  in  feeling,  that 
I  cannot  count  the  time.  It  is  not  really  long,  in  weeks  or  months  ;  but,  in  my  usage 
and  experience,  it  is  a  weary,  weary  while. 

They  have  left  off  telling  me  to  '  wait  a  few  days  more.'  I  have  begun  to  fear, 
remotely,  that  the  day  may  never  shine,  when  I  shall  see  my  child-wife  running  in  the 
sunlight  with  her  old  friend  Jip. 

He  is,  as  it  were  suddenly,  grown  very  old.  It  may  be,  that  he  misses  in  his 
mistress,  something  that  enlivened  him  and  made  him  younger  ;  but  he  mopes,  and 
liis  sight  is  weak,  and  his  limbs  are  feeble,  and  my  aunt  is  sorry  that  he  objects  to  her 
no  more,  but  creeps  near  her  as  he  lies  on  Dora's  bed — she  sitting  at  the  bedside — 
and  mildly  licks  her  hand. 

Dora  lies  smiling  on  us,  and  is  beautiful,  and  utters  no  hasty  or  complaining  word. 
She  says  that  we  are  very  good  to  her  ;  that  her  dear  old  careful  boy  is  tiring  himself 
out,  she  knows  ;  that  my  aunt  has  no  sleep,  yet  is  always  wakeful,  active,  and  kind. 
Sometimes,  the  little  bird-like  ladies  come  to  see  her  ;  and  then  we  talk  about  our 
wedding-day,  and  all  that  happy  time. 

What  a  strange  rest  and  pause  in  my  life  there  seems  to  be — and  in  all  life,  within 
doors  and  without — when  I  sit  in  the  quiet,  shaded,  orderly  room,  with  the  blue  eyes 
of  my  child-wife  turned  towards  me,  and  her  little  fingers  twining  round  my  hand  ! 
Many  and  many  an  hour  I  sit  thus  ;  but,  of  all  those  times,  three  times  come  the 
freshest  on  my  mind. 

It  is  morning  ;  and  Dora,  made  so  trim  by  my  aunt's  hands,  shows  me  how  her 
pretty  hair  will  curl  upon  the  pillow  yet,  and  how  long  and  bright  it  is,  and  how  she 
likes  to  have  it  loosely  gathered  in  that  net  she  wears. 

'  Not  that  I  am  vain  of  it,  now,  you  mocking  boy,'  she  says,  when  I  smile  ;  '  but 
because  you  used  to  say  you  thought  it  so  beautiful  ;  and  because,  when  I  first  began 
to  think  about  you,  I  used  to  peep  in  the  glass,  and  wonder  whether  you  would  like 
very  much  to  have  a  lock  of  it.  Oh  what  a  foolish  fellow  you  were,  Doady,  when  I 
gave  you  one  !  ' 

'  That  was  on  the  day  when  you  were  painting  the  flowers  I  had  given  you,  Dora, 
and  when  I  told  you  how  much  in  love  I  was.' 

'  Ah  !  but  I  didn't  like  to  tell  you,'  says  Dora,  '  then,  how  I  had  cried  over  them, 
because  I  believed  you  really  liked  me  !  When  I  can  run  about  again  as  I  used  to  do, 
Doady,  let  us  go  and  see  those  places  where  we  were  such  a  silly  couple,  shall  we  ? 
And  take  some  of  the  old  walks  ?     And  not  forget  poor  papa  ?  ' 

49S 


A  NOT  mm  RETROSPECT  499 

'  Yes,  we  will,  liave  and  sonic  happy  days.  So  you  must  make  haste  to  get  well, 
ni}'  dear.' 

'  Oh,  I  shall  soon  do  that  !     I  am  so  much  better,  you  don't  know  !  ' 

It  is  evening  ;  and  I  siL  in  the  same  chair,  by  the  same  bed,  with  the  same  face 
turned  towards  me.  Wc  have  been  silent,  and  there  is  a  smile  upon  her  face.  I  have 
ceased  to  carry  my  light  burden  up  and  down  stairs  now.     She  lies  here  all  the  day. 

'  Doady  !  ' 

'  My  dear  Dora  !  ' 

'  You  won't  think  what  I  am  going  to  say,  unreasonable,  after  what  you  told 
me,  such  a  little  while  ago,  of  Mr.  VVit^kfield's  not  being  well  ?  I  want  to  see  Agnes. 
Very  much  I  want  to  sec  her." 

'  I  will  write  to  her,  my  dear.' 

'  Will  you  ?  ' 

'  Directly.' 

'  What  a  good,  kind  boy  !  Doady,  take  me  on  your  arm.  Indeed,  my  dear, 
it 's  not  a  whim.     It 's  not  a  foolish  fancy.     I  want,  very  much  indeed,  to  see  her  !  * 

'  I  am  certain  of  it.     I  have  only  to  tell  her  so,  and  she  is  sure  to  come.' 

'  You  are  very  lonely  when  you  go  downstairs,  now  ?  '  Dora  whispers,  with  her 
arm  about  my  neck. 

'  How  can  I  be  otherwise,  my  own  love,  when  I  see  your  empty  chair  ?  ' 

'  My  empty  chair  !  '  She  clings  to  me  for  a  little  while,  in  silence.  '  And  you 
really  miss  me,  Doady  ?  '  looking  up,  and  brightly  smiling.  '  Even  poor,  giddy, 
stupid  me  ?  ' 

'  My  heart,  who  is  there  upon  earth  that  I  could  miss  so  much  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  husband  !  I  am  so  glad,  yet  so  sorry  !  '  creeping  closer  to  me,  and  folding 
me  in  both  her  arms.     She  laughs  and  sobs,  and  then  is  quiet,  and  quite  happy. 

'  Quite  !  '  she  says.  '  Only  give  Agnes  my  dear  love,  and  tell  her  that  I  want 
very,  very  much  to  see  her  ;   and  I  have  nothing  left  to  wish  for.' 

'  Except  to  get  well  again,  Dora.' 

'  Ah,  Doady  !  Sometimes  I  think — you  know  I  always  was  a  silly  little  thing  ! 
— that  that  will  never  be  !  ' 

'  Don't  say  so,  Dora  !     Dearest  love,  don't  think  so  !  ' 

'  I  won't,  if  I  can  help  it,  Doady.  But  I  am  very  happy  ;  though  my  dear  boy 
is  so  lonely  by  himself,  before  his  child-wife's  empty  chair  !  ' 

It  is  night  ;  and  I  am  with  her  still.  Agnes  has  arrived  ;  has  been  among  us, 
for  a  whole  day  and  an  evening.  She,  my  aunt,  and  I,  have  sat  with  Dora  since  the 
morning,  all  together.  We  have  not  talked  much,  but  Dora  has  been  perfectly  eon- 
tented  and  cheerful.     We  are  now  alone. 

Do  I  know,  now,  that  my  child-wife  will  soon  leave  me  ?  They  have  told  me  so  ; 
they  have  told  me  nothing  new  to  my  thoughts  ;  but  I  am  far  from  sure  that  I  have 
taken  that  truth  to  heart.  I  cannot  master  it.  I  have  withdrawn  by  myself,  many 
times  to-day,  to  weep.  I  have  remembered  Who  wept  for  a  parting  between  the  li\-ing 
and  the  dead.  I  have  bethought  me  of  all  that  gracious  and  compassionate  history. 
I  have  tried  to  resign  myself,  and  to  console  myself,  and  that,  I  hope,  I  may  have  done 
imperfectly  ;  but  what  I  cannot  firmly  settle  in  my  mind  is.  that  the  end  will  absolutely 
come.     I  hold  her  hand  in  mine,  I  hold  her  heart  in  mine,  I  see  her  love  for  me,  alive 


500  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

in  all  its  strength.     I  cannot  shut  out  a  pale  lingering  shadow  of  belief  that  she  will  be 
spared. 

'  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you,  Doady.  I  am  going  to  say  something  I  have  often 
thought  of  saying,  lately.     You  won't  mind  ?  '   with  a  gentle  look. 

'  Mind,  my  darling  ?  ' 

'  Because  I  don't  know  what  you  will  think,  or  what  you  may  have  thought  some- 
times. Perhaps  you  have  often  thought  the  same.  Doady,  dear,  I  am  afraid  I  was 
too  young.' 

I  lay  my  face  upon  the  pillow  by  her,  and  she  looks  into  my  eyes,  and  speaks  very 
softly.  Gradually,  as  she  goes  on,  I  feel,  with  a  stricken  heart,  that  she  is  speaking 
of  herself  as  past. 

'  I  am  afraid,  dear,  I  was  too  young.  I  don't  mean  in  years  only,  but  in  experi- 
ence, and  thoughts,  and  everything.  I  was  such  a  silly  little  creature  !  I  am  afraid 
it  would  have  been  better,  if  we  had  only  loved  each  other  as  a  boy  and  girl,  and 
forgotten  it.     I  have  begun  to  think  I  was  not  fit  to  be  a  wife.' 

I  try  to  stay  my  tears,  and  to  reph%  '  Oh,  Dora,  love,  as  fit  as  I  to  be  a  husband  !  ' 

'  I  don't  know,'  with  the  old  shake  of  her  curls.  '  Perhaps  !  But,  if  I  had  been 
more  fit  to  be  married,  I  might  have  made  you  more  so,  too.  Besides,  you  are  very 
clever,  and  I  never  was.' 

'  We  have  been  very  happy,  my  sweet  Dora.' 

'  I  was  very  happy,  very.  But,  as  years  went  on,  my  dear  boy  would  have 
wearied  of  his  child-wife.  She  would  have  been  less  and  less  a  companion  for  him. 
He  would  have  been  more  and  more  sensible  of  what  was  wanting  in  his  home.  She 
wouldn't  have  improved.     It  is  better  as  it  is.' 

'  Oh,  Dora,  dearest,  dearest,  do  not  speak  to  me  so.  Every  word  seems  a 
reproach  !  ' 

'  No,  not  a  syllable  !  '  she  answers,  kissing  me.  '  Oh,  my  dear,  you  never  deserved 
it,  and  I  loved  you  far  too  well,  to  say  a  reproachful  word  to  you,  in  earnest — it  was 
all  the  merit  I  had,  except  being  pretty — or  you  thought  me  so.  Is  it  lonely,  down- 
stairs, Doady  ?  ' 

'  Very  !     Very  !  ' 

'  Don't  cry  !     Is  my  chair  there  ?  ' 

'  In  its  old  place.' 

'  Oh,  how  my  poor  boy  cries  !  Hush,  hush  !  Now,  make  me  one  promise.  I 
want  to  speak  to  Agnes.  When  you  go  downstairs,  tell  Agnes  so,  and  send  her  up  to 
me  ;  and  while  I  sjieak  to  her,  let  no  one  come— not  even  aunt.  I  want  to  speak  to 
Agnes,  by  herself.     I  want  to  speak  to  Agnes,  quite  alone.' 

I  promise  that  she  shall,  immediately  ;   but  I  cannot  leave  her,  for  my  grief. 

'  I  said  that  it  was  better  as  it  is  !  '  she  whispers,  as  she  holds  me  in  her  arms. 
'  Oh,  Doady,  after  more  years,  you  never  could  have  loved  your  child-wife  better 
than  you  do  ;  and,  after  more  years,  she  would  so  have  tried  and  disappointed  you, 
that  you  might  not  have  been  able  to  love  her  half  so  well  !  I  know  I  was  too  young 
and  foolish.     It  is  much  better  as  it  is  !  ' 

Agnes  is  downstairs,  when  I  go  into  the  parlour  ;  and  I  give  her  the  message. 
She  disappears,  leaving  me  alone  with  Jip. 

His  Chinese  house  is  by  the  fire  ;  and  he  lies  within  it,  on  his  bed  of  flannel, 
querulously  trying  to  sleep.     The  bright  moon  is  high  and  clear.     As  I  look  out  on 


MR.  MKJAWBER'S  TRANSA(JT10NS  501 

the  night,  my  Iciirs  full    fust,   and   my   uiidisciplitied   heart   is  chastened    heavily  — 
heavily. 

I  sit  down  l)y  the  fire,  thinking  with  a  blind  remorse  of  all  those  secret  feelings 
I  have  nourished  since  my  marriage.  I  think  of  every  little  trifle  between  me  and 
Dora,  and  feel  the  truth,  that  trifles  make  the  sum  of  life.  Ever  rising  from  the  sea 
of  my  remembranee,  is  the  image  of  the  dear  child  as  I  knew  her  first,  graced  by  my 
young  love,  and  by  her  own,  with  every  fascination  wherein  such  love  is  rich.  Would 
it,  indeed,  have  been  better  if  we  had  loved  each  other  as  a  boy  and  girl,  and  forgotten 
it  ?     Undisciplined  heart,  reply  ! 

How  the  time  wears,  I  know  not  :  until  I  am  recalled  by  my  child-wife's  old 
companion.  More  restless  than  he  was,  he  crawls  out  of  his  house,  and  looks  at  me, 
and  wanders  to  the  door,  and  whines  to  go  upstairs. 

'  Not  to-night,  Jip  !     Not  to-night  !  ' 

He  comes  very  slowly  back  to  me,  licks  my  hand,  and  lifts  his  dim  eyes  to  my  face. 

'  Oh,  Jip  !     It  may  be,  never  again  !  ' 

He  lies  down  at  my  feet,  stretches  himself  out  as  if  to  sleep,  and  with  a  plaintive 
cry,  is  dead. 

'  Oh,  Agnes  !     Look,  look,  here  !  ' 

— That  face,  so  full  of  pity,  and  of  grief,  that  rain  of  tears,  that  awful  mute 
appeal  to  me,  that  solemn  hand  upraised  towards  Heaven  ! 

'  Agnes  ?  ' 

It  is  over.  Darkness  comes  before  my  eyes  ;  and,  for  a  time,  all  things  are  blotted 
out  of  my  remembrance. 


CHAPTER    LIY 
MR.  micawber's  transactions 

THIS  is  not  the  time  at  which  I  am  te  enter  on  the  state  of  my  mind  beneath 
its  load  of  sorrow.  I  came  to  think  that  the  Future  was  walled  up  before 
me,  that  the  energy  and  action  of  my  life  were  at  an  end,  that  I  never 
could  find  any  refuge  but  in  the  grave.  I  came  to  think  so,  I  say,  but 
not  in  the  first  shock  of  my  grief.  It  slowly  grew  to  that.  If  the  events  I  go  on  to 
relate,  had  not  thickened  around  me,  in  the  beginning  to  confuse,  and  in  the  end  to 
augment,  my  affliction,  it  is  possible  (though  I  think  not  probable),  that  I  might  have 
fallen  at  once  into  this  condition.  As  it  was,  an  interval  occurred  before  I  fully  knew 
my  own  distress ;  an  interval,  in  which  I  even  supposed  that  its  sharpest  pangs  were 
past ;  and  when  my  mind  could  soothe  itself  by  resting  on  all  that  was  most  innocent 
and  beautiful,  in  the  tender  story  that  was  closed  for  ever. 

When  it  was  first  proposed  that  I  should  go  abroad,  or  how  it  came  to  be  agreed 
among  us  that  I  was  to  seek  the  restoration  of  my  peace  in  change  and  travel,  I  do  not, 
even  now,  distinctly  know.  The  spirit  of  Agnes  so  per^^aded  all  we  thought,  and 
said,  and  did,  in  that  time  of  sorrow,  that  I  assume  I  may  refer  the  project  to  her 
influence.     But  her  influence  was  so  quiet  that  I  know  no  more. 

And  now,  indeed,  I  began  to  think  that  in  my  old  association  of  her  with  the 
stained-glass  window  in  the  church,  a  prophetic  foreshadowing  of  what  she  would  be 


502  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

to  me,  in  the  calamity  that  was  to  happen  in  the  fullness  of  time,  had  found  a  way 
into  my  mind.  In  all  that  sorrow,  from  the  iiioment,  never  to  be  forgotten,  when  she 
stood  before  me  with  her  upraised  hand,  she  was  like  a  sacred  presence  in  my  lonely 
house.  When  the  Angel  of  Death  alighted  there,  my  child-wife  fell  asleep — they  told 
me  so  when  I  could  bear  to  hear  it — on  her  bosom,  with  a  smile.  From  my  swoon, 
I  first  awoke  to  a  consciousness  of  her  compassionate  tears,  her  words  of  hope  and 
peace,  her  gentle  face  bending  down  as  from  a  purer  region  nearer  heaven,  over  my 
undisciplined  heart,  and  softening  its  pain. 

Let  me  go  on. 

I  was  to  go  abroad.  That  seemed  to  have  been  determined  among  us  from  the 
first.  The  ground  now  covering  all  that  could  perish  of  my  departed  wife,  I  waited 
only  for  what  Mr.  Micawber  called  the  '  final  pulverisation  of  Heep,'  and  for  the 
departure  of  the  emigrants. 

At  the  request  of  Traddles,  most  affectionate  and  devoted  of  friends  in  my  trouble, 
we  returned  to  Canterbury  :  I  mean  my  aunt,  Agnes,  and  I.  We  proceeded  by  appoint- 
ment straight  to  Mr.  Micawber's  house  ;  where,  and  at  Mr.  Wickfield's,  my  friend  had 
been  labouring  ever  since  our  explosive  meeting.  When  poor  Mrs.  Micawber  saw 
me  come  in,  in  my  black  clothes,  she  was  sensibly  affected.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  good  in  Mrs.  Micawber's  heart,  which  had  not  been  dunned  out  of  it  in  all  those 
many  years. 

'  Well,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber,'  was  my  aunt's  first  salutation  after  we  were 
seated.     '  Pray,  have  you  thought  about  that  emigration  proposal  of  mine  ?  ' 

'  My  dear  madam,'  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  '  perhaps  I  cannot  better  express  the 
conclusion  at  which  Mrs.  Micawber,  your  humble  servant,  and  I  may  add  our  children, 
have  jointly  and  severally  arrived,  than  by  borrowing  the  language  of  an  illustrious 
poet,  to  reply  that  our  Boat  is  on  the  shore,  and  our  Bark  is  on  the  sea.' 

'  That 's  right,'  said  my  aunt.  '  I  augur  all  sorts  of  good  from  your  sensible 
decision.' 

'  Madam,  you  do  us  a  great  deal  of  honour,'  he  rejoined.  He  then  referred  to  a 
memorandum.  '  With  respect  to  the  pecuniary  assistance  enabling  us  to  launch  our 
frail  canoe  on  the  ocean  of  enterprise,  I  have  reconsidered  that  important  business 
point ;  and  would  beg  to  propose  my  notes-of-hand- — drawn,  it  is  needless  to  stipulate, 
on  stamps  of  the  amounts  respectively  required  by  the  various  Acts  of  Parliament 
applying  to  such  securities — at  eighteen,  twenty-four  and  thirty  months.  The  pro- 
position I  originally  submitted,  was  twelve,  eighteen,  and  twenty-four  ;  but  I  am 
apprehensive  that  such  an  arrangement  might  not  allow  sufficient  time  for  the  requisite 
amount  of — Something — to  turn  up.  We  might  not,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  looking 
round  the  room  as  if  it  represented  several  hundred  acres  of  highly  cultivated  land, 
'  on  the  first  responsibility  becoming  due,  have  been  successful  in  our  harvest,  or  we 
might  not  have  got  our  harvest  in.  Labour,  I  believe,  is  sometimes  difficult  to  obtain 
in  that  portion  of  our  colonial  possessions  where  it  will  be  our  lot  to  combat  with  the 
teeming  soil.' 

'  Arrange  it  in  any  way  you  please,  sir,'  said  my  aunt. 

'  Madam,'  he  replied,  '  Mrs.  Miacwber  and  myself  are  deeply  sensible  of  the  very 
considerate  kindness  of  our  friends  and  patrons.  What  I  wish  is,  to  be  perfectly 
business-like,  and  perfectly  punctual.  Turning  over,  as  we  are  about  to  turn  over, 
an  entirely  new  leaf  ;  and  falling  back,  as  we  are  now  in  the  act  of  falling  back,  for  a 
Spring  of  no  common  magnitude  ;   it  is  important  to  my  sense  of  self-respect,  besides 


MR.  MICAWIJKR'S  TRANSACTIONS  508 

being  an  example  to  my  son,  tliut,  lliese  arrangements  shouM  l)f  ff)nelijfle(l  as  between 
man  and  man.' 

I  don't  know  that  Mr.  Micawber  attaehed  any  meaning  to  this  last  phrase  ;  I 
don't  know  that  anybody  ever  does,  or  did  ;  but  he  af)peared  to  relish  it  uneommonly 
and  repeated,  with  an  iinj)ressive  (rough,  '  as  between  man  and  m.'in.' 

'I  propose,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  'Bills — a  convenience  to  the  mercantile  world, 
for  whieh,  I  believe,  we  are  originally  indebted  to  the  .Jews,  who  appear  to  me  to  have 
had  a  devilish  deal  too  much  l(j  do  with  them  ever  since — because  they  arc  negotiable. 
But  if  a  bond,  or  any  other  description  of  security,  would  be  preferred,  I  should  be 
happy  to  execute  any  such  instrument.     As  between  man  and  man.' 

My  aunt  observed,  that  in  a  ease  where  both  parlies  were  willing  to  agree  to 
anything,  she  took  it  for  granted  there  would  be  no  diflieulty  in  settling  this  point. 
Mr.  Micawber  was  of  her  opinion. 

'  In  reference  to  our  domestic  preparations,  madam,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with 
some  pride,  '  for  meeting  the  destiny  to  which  we  are  now  understood  to  be  self -devoted, 
I  beg  to  report  them.  My  eldest  daughter  attends  at  five  every  morning  in  a  neigh- 
bouring establishment,  to  acquire  the  process — if  process  it  may  be  called — of  milking 
cows.  My  younger  children  are  instructed  to  observe,  as  closely  as  circumstances 
will  permit,  the  habits  of  the  pigs  and  poultry  maintained  in  the  poorer  parts  of  this 
city  :  a  pursuit  from  which  they  have,  on  two  occasions,  been  brought  home,  within 
an  inch  of  being  run  over.  I  have  myself  directed  some  attention,  during  the  past 
week,  to  the  art  of  baking  ;  and  my  son  Wilkins  has  issued  forth  with  a  walking-stick 
and  driven  cattle,  when  permitted,  by  the  rugged  hirelings  who  had  them  in  charge, 
to  render  any  voluntary  service  in  that  direction — which  I  regret  to  say,  for  the  credit 
of  our  nature,  was  not  often  ;  he  being  generally  warned,  with  imprecations,  to  desist.' 

'  All  very  right,  indeed,'  said  my  aunt,  encouragingly.  '  Mrs.  Micawber  has  been 
busy,  too,  I  have  no  doubt.' 

'  My  dear  madam,'  returned  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  her  business-like  air,  '  I  am  free 
to  confess,  that  I  have  not  been  actively  engaged  in  pursuits  immediately  connected 
with  cultivation  or  with  stock,  though  well  aware  that  both  will  claim  my  attention 
on  a  foreign  shore.  Such  opportunities  as  I  have  been  enabled  to  alienate  from  my 
domestic  duties,  I  have  devoted  to  corresponding  at  some  length  with  my  family. 
For  I  own  it  seems  to  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  always 
fell  back  on  me  (I  suppose  from  old  habit)  to  whomsoever  else  she  might  address  her 
discourse  at  starting,  '  that  the  time  is  come  when  the  past  should  be  buried  in  oblivion  ; 
when  my  family  should  take  Mr.  Micawber  by  the  hand,  and  Mr.  Micawl)cr  should 
take  my  family  by  the  hand  :  when  the  lion  should  lie  down  with  the  lamb,  and  my 
family  be  on  terms  with  Mr.  Micawber.' 

I  said  I  thought  so  too. 

'  This,  at  least,  is  the  light,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  pursued  Mrs.  Micawber, 
'  in  which  /  view  the  subject.  ^Vllen  I  lived  at  home  with  my  pa{>a  and  mamma, 
my  papa  was  accustomed  to  ask,  when  any  point  was  under  discussion  in  our  limited 
circle,  "  In  what  light  does  my  Emma  view  the  subject  ?  "  That  my  papa  was  too 
partial,  I  know  ;  still,  on  such  a  point  as  the  frigid  coldness  which  has  ever  subsisted 
between  Mr.  Micawber  and  my  family,  I  necessarily  have  formed  an  opinion,  delusive 
though  it  may  be.' 

'  No  doubt.     Of  course  you  have,  ma'am,'  said  my  aunt. 

'  Precisely  so,'  assented  Mrs.  Micawber.     '  Now,  I  may  be  wrong  in  my  conclusions  ; 


504  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

it  is  very  likely  that  I  am  ;  but  my  individual  impression  is,  that  the  gulf  between  my 
family  and  Mr.  Micawber  may  be  traced  to  an  apprehension,  on  the  part  of  my  family, 
that  Mr.  Micawber  would  require  pecuniary  accommodation.  I  cannot  help  thinking,' 
said  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  an  air  of  deep  sagacity,  '  that  there  are  members  of  my 
family  who  have  been  apprehensive  that  Mr.  Micawber  would  solicit  them  for  their 
names. — I  do  not  mean  to  be  conferred  in  Baptism  upon  our  children,  but  to  be 
inscribed  on  Bills  of  Exchange,  and  negotiated  in  the  Money  Market.' 

The  look  of  penetration  with  which  Mrs.  Micawber  announced  this  discovery, 
as  if  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  it  before,  seemed  rather  to  astonish  my  aunt ;  who 
abruptly  replied,  '  Well,  ma'am,  upon  the  whole,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  were 
right  !  ' 

'  Mr.  Micawber  being  now  on  the  eve  of  casting  off  the  pecuniary  shackles  that 
have  so  long  enthralled  him,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  and  of  commencing  a  new  career 
in  a  country  where  there  is  sufficient  range  for  his  abilities, — which,  in  my  opinion, 
is  exceedingly  important ;  Mr.  Micawber' s  abilities  peculiarly  requiring  space, — it 
seems  to  me  that  my  family  should  signalise  the  occasion  by  coming  forward.  What 
I  could  wish  to  see,  would  be  a  meeting  between  Mr.  Micawber  and  my  family  at  a 
festive  entertainment,  to  be  given  at  my  family's  expense  ;  where  Mr.  Micawber's 
health  and  prosperity  being  proposed,  by  some  leading  member  of  my  family,  Mr. 
Micawber  might  have  an  opportunity  of  developing  his  views.' 

'  My  dear,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  some  heat,  '  it  may  be  better  for  me  to  state 
distinctly,  at  once,  that  if  I  were  to  develop  my  views  to  that  assembled  group,  they 
would  possibly  be  found  of  an  offensive  nature  ;  my  impression  being  that  your 
family  are,  in  the  aggregate,  impertinent  Snobs  ;  and,  in  detail,  unmitigated  Ruffians.' 

'  Micawber,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  shaking  her  head,  '  no  !  You  have  never  under- 
stood them,  and  they  have  never  understood  you.' 

Mr.  Micawber  coughed. 

'  They  have  never  understood  you,  Micawber,'  said  his  wife.  '  They  may  be 
incapable  of  it.     If  so,  that  is  their  misfortune.     I  can  pity  their  misfortune.' 

'  I  am  extremely  sorry,  my  dear  Emma,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  relenting,  '  to  have 
been  betrayed  into  any  expressions  that  might,  even  remotely,  have  the  appearance 
of  being  strong  expressions.  All  I  would  say,  is  that  I  can  go  abroad  without  your 
family  coming  forward  to  favour  me, — in  short,  with  a  parting  shove  of  their  cold 
shoulders  ;  and  that,  upon  the  whole,  I  would  rather  leave  England  with  such  impetus 
as  I  possess,  than  derive  any  acceleration  of  it  from  that  quarter.  At  the  same  time, 
my  dear,  if  they  should  condescend  to  reply  to  your  communications — which  our 
joint  experience  renders  most  improbable — far  be  it  from  me  to  be  a  barrier  to  your 
wishes.' 

The  matter  being  thus  amicaVjly  settled,  Mr.  Micawber  gave  IMrs.  Micawber  his 
arm,  and  glancing  at  the  heap  of  books  and  papers  lying  before  Traddles  on  the  table, 
said  they  would  leave  us  to  ourselves  ;  which  they  ceremoniously  did. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Traddles,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  when  they  were 
gone,  and  looking  at  me  with  an  affection  that  made  his  eyes  red,  and  his  hair  all  kinds 
of  shapes,  '  I  don't  make  any  excuse  for  troubling  you  with  business,  because  I  know 
you  are  deeply  interested  in  it,  and  it  may  divert  your  thoughts.  My  dear  boy,  I 
hope  you  are  not  worn.' 

'  I  am  quite  myself,'  said  I,  after  a  pause.  '  We  have  more  cause  to  think  of  my 
aunt  than  of  any  one.     You  know  how  much  she  has  done.' 


MR.  MICAWBEirS  TRANSACTIONS  /los 

'  Surely,  surely,'  answered  Traddles.     '  Who  ean  forj^et  it,  !  ' 

'But  even  that  is  not  all,'  said  I.  '  Durinj,'  tlic  last  fortnight,  some  new  trouble 
has  vexed  her  ;  and  she  has  been  in  and  out  of  J.ondon  every  day.  Several  times  she 
has  gone  out  early,  and  been  absent  until  eveninj(.  Last  night,  Traddles,  with  this 
journey  before  her,  it  was  almost  niidnifrhl  before  she  earne  home,  '^'ou  know  what 
her  consideration  for  others  is.     She  will  not  tell  nie  what  has  happened  to  distress  her.' 

My  aunt,  very  pale,  and  with  deep  lines  in  her  face,  sat  immovable  until  I  had 
finished  ;  when  some  stray  tears  found  their  way  to  her  cheeks,  and  she  put  her  hand 
on  mine. 

'  It 's  nothing,  Trot ;  it 's  nothing.  There  will  be  no  more  <A  it.  You  shall  know 
by  and  by.     Now,  Agnes,  my  dear,  let  us  attend  to  these  affairs.' 

'  I  must  do  Mr.  Micawber  the  justice  to  say,'  Traddles  began,  '  that  although  he 
would  appear  not  to  have  worked  to  any  good  account  for  himself,  he  is  a  most  untiring 
man  when  he  works  for  other  people.  I  never  saw  such  a  fellow.  If  he  always  goes 
on  in  the  same  way,  he  must  be,  virtually,  about  two  hundred  years  ohl,  at  present. 
The  heat  into  which  he  has  been  continually  putting  himself  ;  and  the  distracted  and 
impetuous  manner  in  which  he  has  been  diving,  day  and  night,  among  papers  and 
books  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  immense  number  of  letters  he  has  written  me  between 
this  house  and  Mr.  Wickfield's,  and  often  across  the  table  when  he  has  been  sitting 
opposite,  and  might  much  more  easily  have  spoken  ;   is  quite  extraordinary.' 

'  Letters  !  '    cried  my  aunt.     '  I  believe  he  dreams  in  letters  !  ' 

'  There  's  Mr.  Dick,  too,'  said  Traddles,  '  has  been  doing  wonders  !  As  soon  as 
he  was  released  from  overlooking  Uriah  Ileep,  whom  he  kept  in  such  charge  as  /  never 
saw  exceeded,  he  began  to  devote  himself  to  Mr.  Wickfield.  And  really  his  anxiety 
to  be  of  use  in  the  investigations  we  have  been  making,  and  his  real  usefulness 
in  extracting,  and  copying,  and  fetching,  and  carrying,  have  been  quite  stimulating 
to  us.' 

'  Dick  is  a  very  remarkable  man,'  exclaimed  my  aunt  ;  '  and  I  always  said  he 
was.     Trot,  you  know  it.' 

'  I  am  happy  to  say.  Miss  Wickfield,'  pursued  Traddles,  at  once  with  great 
delicacy  and  with  great  earnestness,  '  that  in  your  absence  Mr.  ^Vickfleld  has  con- 
siderably improved.  Relieved  of  the  incubus  that  had  fastened  upon  him  for  so  long 
a  time  and  of  the  dreadful  apprehensions  imder  which  he  had  lived,  he  is  hardly  the 
same  person.  At  times,  even  his  impaired  jiower  of  concentrating  his  memory  and 
attention  on  particular  points  of  business,  has  recovered  itself  very  much  :  and  he  has 
been  able  to  assist  us  in  making  some  things  clear,  that  we  should  have  foimd  very 
difficult  indeed,  if  not  hopeless,  without  him.  But,  what  I  have  to  do  is  to  come  to 
results  ;  which  are  short  enough  ;  not  to  gossip  on  all  the  hopeful  circumstances  I 
have  observed,  or  I  shall  never  have  done.' 

His  natural  manner  and  agreeable  simplicity  made  it  transparent  that  he  said 
this  to  put  us  in  good  heart,  and  to  enable  Agnes  to  hear  her  father  mentioned  with 
greater  confidence  ;   but  it  was  not  the  less  pleasant  for  that. 

'  Now,  let  me  see,'  said  Traddles,  looking  among  the  papers  on  the  table.  '  Having 
counted  our  funds,  and  reduced  to  order  a  great  mass  of  unintentional  confusion  in 
the  first  place,  and  of  wilful  confusion  and  falsification  in  the  second,  we  take  it  to  be 
clear  that  Mr.  W'ickfield  might  now  wind  up  his  business,  and  his  agency-trust,  and 
exhibit  no  deficiency  or  defalcation  whatever.' 

'  Oh,  thank  Heaven  1  '    cried  Agnes,  fervently. 


506  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  But,'  said  Traddles,  '  the  surplus  that  would  be  left  as  his  means  of  support — 
and  I  suppose  the  house  to  be  sold,  even  in  saying  this — would  be  so  small,  not  exceed- 
ing in  all  probability  some  hundreds  of  pounds,  that  perhaps.  Miss  Wickfield,  it  would 
be  best  to  consider  whether  he  might  not  retain  his  agency  of  the  estate  to  which  he 
has  so  long  been  receiver.  His  friends  might  advise  him,  you  know  ;  now  he  is  free. 
You  yourself.  Miss  Wickfield — Copperfield — I ' 

'  I  have  considered  it,  Trotwood,'  said  Agnes,  looking  to  me,  '  and  I  feel  that  it 
ought  not  to  be,  and  must  not  be  ;  even  on  the  recommendation  of  a  friend  to  whom 
I  am  so  grateful,  and  owe  so  much.' 

'  I  will  not  say  that  I  recommend  it,'  observed  Traddles.  '  I  think  it  right  to 
suggest  it.     No  more.' 

'  I  am  happy  to  hear  you  say  so,'  answered  Agnes,  steadily,  '  for  it  gives  me  hope, 
almost  assurance,  that  we  think  alike.  Dear  Mr.  Traddles  and  dear  Trotwood,  papa 
once  free  with  honour,  what  could  I  wish  for  ?  I  have  always  aspired,  if  I  could  have 
released  him  fi'om  the  toils  in  which  he  was  held,  to  render  back  some  Httle  portion  of 
the  love  and  care  I  owe  him,  and  to  devote  my  life  to  him.  It  has  been,  for  years, 
the  utmost  height  of  my  hopes.  To  take  our  future  on  myself,  will  be  the  next  great 
happiness — the  next  to  his  release  from  all  trust  and  responsibility — that  I  can  know.' 

'  Have  you  thought  how,  Agnes  ?  ' 

'  Often  !  I  am  not  afraid,  dear  Trotwood.  I  am  certain  of  success.  So  many 
people  know  me  here,  and  think  kindly  of  me,  that  I  am  certain.  Don't  mistrust  me. 
Our  wants  are  not  many.  If  I  rent  the  dear  old  house,  and  keep  a  school,  I  shall  be 
useful  and  happy.' 

The  calm  fervour  of  her  cheerful  voice  brought  back  so  vividly,  first  the  dear 
old  house  itself,  and  then  my  solitary  home,  that  my  heart  was  too  full  for  speech. 
Traddles  pretended  for  a  little  while  to  be  busily  looking  among  the  papers. 

'  Next,  Miss  Trotwood,'  said  Traddles,  '  that  property  of  yours.' 

'  Well,  sir,'  sighed  my  aunt.  '  All  I  have  got  to  say  about  it,  is,  that  if  it 's  gone, 
I  can  bear  it  ;   and  if  it 's  not  gone,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  it  back.' 

'  It  was  originally,  I  think,  eight  thousand  pounds,  Consols  ?  '  said  Traddles. 

'  Right  !  '    replied  my  aunt. 

'  I  can't  account  for  more  than  five,'  said  Traddles,  with  an  air  of  perplexity. 

'  — Thousand,  do  you  mean  ?  '  inquired  my  aunt,  with  uncommon  composure, 
'  or  pounds  ?  ' 

'  Five  thousand  pounds,'  said  Traddles. 

'  It  was  all  there  was,'  returned  my  aunt.  '  I  sold  three,  myself.  One,  I  paid  for 
your  articles,  Trot,  my  dear  ;  and  the  other  two  I  have  by  me.  When  I  lost  the  rest, 
I  thought  it  wise  to  say  nothing  about  that  sum,  but  to  keep  it  secretly  for  a  rainy 
day.  I  wanted  to  see  how  you  would  come  out  of  the  trial.  Trot ;  and  you  came 
out  nobly — persevering,  self-reliant,  self-denying  !  So  did  Dick.  Don't  speak  to  me, 
for  I  find  my  nerves  a  little  shaken  !  ' 

Nobody  would  have  thought  so,  to  see  her  sitting  upright,  with  her  arms  folded  ; 
but  she  had  wonderful  self-command. 

'  Then  I  am  delighted  to  say,'  cried  Traddles,  beaming  with  joy,  '  that  we  have 
recovered  the  whole  money  I  ' 

'  Don't  congratulate  me,  anybody  !  '   exclaimed  my  aunt.     '  How  so,  sir  ?  ' 

'  You  believed  it  had  been  misappropriated  by  Mr.  Wickfield  ?  '  said 
Traddles. 


MR.  MICAWIIER'S  TRANSACTIONS  507 

'  Of  course  I  did,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  was  therefore  easily  silenced.  Agnes, 
not  a  word  !  ' 

'  And  indeed,'  said  Traddlcs,  '  it  was  sold,  by  viit uc  of  the  jjowcr  of  management 
he  held  from  you  ;  but  I  needn't  say  by  whom  sold,  or  on  whose  actual  signature. 
It  was  afterwards  pretended  to  Mr.  W'ickficld,  liy  that  rascal — and  proved,  too,  by 
figures — that  he  had  possessed  himself  of  the  money  (on  general  instructions,  he  said) 
to  keep  other  deficiencies  and  diflieulties  from  the  light.  Mr.  Wickfield,  being  so  weak 
and  helpless  in  his  hands  as  to  pay  you,  afterwards,  several  sums  of  interest  on  a 
pretended  priticipal  which  he  knew  did  not  exist,  made  himself,  unhappily,  a  party 
to  the  fraud.' 

'  And  at  last  took  the  blame  upon  himself,'  added  my  aunt ;  '  and  wrote  me  a 
mad  letter,  charging  himself  with  robbery,  and  wrong  unheard  of.  Upon  which  I 
paid  him  a  visit  early  one  morning,  called  for  a  candle,  burnt  the  letter,  and  told  him 
if  he  ever  could  right  me  and  himself,  to  do  it  ;  and  if  he  couldn't,  to  keep  his  own 
counsel  for  his  daughter's  sake.— If  anybody  speaks  to  me,  I  '11  leave  the  house  !  ' 

We  all  remained  quiet  ;  Agnes  covering  her  face. 

'  Well,  my  dear  friend,'  said  my  aunt,  after  a  pause,  '  and  you  have  really  extorted 
the  money  back  from  him  ?  ' 

'  Why,  the  fact  is,'  returned  Traddlcs,  '  Mr.  Micawber  had  so  completely  hemmed 
him  in,  and  was  always  ready  with  so  many  new  points  if  an  old  one  failed,  that  he 
could  not  escape  from  us.  A  most  remarkable  circumstance  is,  that  I  really  don't 
think  he  grasped  this  sum  even  so  much  for  the  gratification  of  his  avarice,  which  was 
inordinate,  as  in  the  hatred  he  felt  for  Copperfield.  He  said  so  to  me,  plainly.  lie 
said  he  would  even  have  spent  as  much,  to  baulk  or  injure  Copperfield.' 

'  Ha  !  '  said  my  aunt,  knitting  her  brows  thoughtfulh',  and  glancing  at  Agnes. 
'  And  what 's  become  of  him  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know.  He  left  here,'  said  Traddlcs,  '  with  his  mother,  who  had  been 
clamouring,  and  beseeching,  and  disclosing,  the  whole  time.  They  went  away  by 
one  of  the  London  night  coaches,  and  I  know  no  more  about  him  ;  except  that  his 
malevolence  to  me  at  parting  was  audacious.  He  seemed  to  consider  himself  hardly 
less  indebted  to  me,  than  to  Mr.  Micawber  ;  which  I  consider  (as  I  told  him)  quite  a 
compliment.' 

'  Do  you  suppose  he  has  any  money,  Traddlcs  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  Oh  dear,  yes,  I  should  think  so,'  he  replied,  shaking  his  head,  seriously.  '  I 
should  say  he  must  have  pocketed  a  good  deal,  in  one  way  or  other.  But,  I  think  you 
would  find,  Copperfield,  if  you  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  his  course,  that  money 
would  never  keep  that  man  out  of  mischief.  He  is  such  an  incarnate  hj-pocrite,  that 
whatever  object  he  pursues,  he  must  pursue  crookedly.  It  's  his  only  compensation 
for  the  outward  restraints  he  puts  upon  himself.  Always  creeping  along  the  ground 
to  some  small  end  or  other,  he  will  always  magnify  every  object  in  the  way  ;  and 
consequently  will  hate  and  suspect  everybody  that  comes,  in  the  most  innocent 
manner,  between  him  and  it.  So,  the  crooked  courses  will  become  crookeder,  at  any 
moment,  for  the  least  reason,  or  for  none.  It 's  only  necessary  to  consider  his  history 
here,'  said  Traddlcs,  '  to  know  that.' 

'  He  's  a  monster  of  meanness  !  '   said  my  aunt. 

'  Really  I  don't  know  about  that,'  observed  Traddles,  thoughtfully.  '  Many 
people  can  be  very  mean,  when  they  give  their  minds  to  it.* 

'  And  now,  touching  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  my  aunt. 


508  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Well,  really,'  said  Traddles,  cheerfully,  '  I  must,  once  more,  give  Mr.  Micawber 
high  praise.  But  for  his  having  been  so  patient  and  persevering  for  so  long  a  time, 
we  never  could  have  hoped  to  do  anything  worth  speaking  of.  And  I  think  we  ought 
to  consider  that  Mr.  Micawber  did  right,  for  right's  sake,  when  we  reflect  what  terms 
he  might  have  made  with  Uriah  Heep  himself,  for  his  silence.' 

'  I  think  so  too,'  said  I. 

'  Now,  what  would  you  give  him  ?  '    inquired  my  aunt. 

'  Oh  !  Before  you  come  to  that,'  said  Traddles,  a  little  disconcerted,  '  I  am  afraid 
I  thought  it  discreet  to  omit  (not  being  able  to  carry  everything  before  me)  two  points, 
in  making  this  lawless  adjustment — for  it 's  perfectly  lawless  from  beginning  to  end 
— of  a  difficult  affair.  Those  I  O  U's,  and  so  forth,  which  Mr.  Micawber  gave  him  for 
the  advances  he  had ' 

'  Well  !     They  must  be  paid,'  said  my  aunt. 

'  Yes,  but  I  don't  know  when  they  may  be  proceeded  on,  or  where  they  are,' 
rejoined  Traddles,  opening  his  eyes  ;  '  and  I  anticipate,  that,  between  this  time  and 
his  departure,  Mr.  Micawber  will  be  constantly  arrested,  or  taken  in  execution.' 

'  Then  he  must  be  constantly  set  free  again,  and  taken  out  of  execution,'  said  my 
aunt.     '  What 's  the  amount  altogether  ?  ' 

'  Why,  Mr.  Micawber  has  entered  the  transactions — he  calls  them  transactions — 
with  great  form,  in  a  book,'  rejoined  Traddles,  smiling  :  '  and  he  makes  the  amount 
a  hundred  and  three  pounds,  five.' 

'  Now,  what  shall  we  give  him,  that  sum  included  ?  '  said  my  aunt.  '  Agnes, 
my  dear,  you  and  I  can  talk  about  division  of  it  afterwards.  What  should  it  be  ? 
Five  hundred  pounds  ?  ' 

Upon  this,  Traddles  and  I  both  struck  in  at  once.  We  both  recommended  a  small 
sum  in  money,  and  the  payment,  without  stipulation  to  Mr.  Micawber,  of  the  Uriah 
claims  as  they  came  in.  W^e  proposed  that  the  family  should  have  their  passage  and 
their  outfit,  and  a  hundred  pounds  ;  and  that  Mr.  Micawber's  arrangement  for  the 
repayment  of  the  advances  should  be  gravely  entered  into,  as  it  might  be  wholesome 
for  him  to  suppose  himself  under  that  responsibility.  To  this,  I  added  the  suggestion, 
that  I  should  give  some  explanation  of  his  character  and  history  to  Mr.  Peggotty, 
who  I  knew  could  be  relied  on  ;  and  that  to  Mr.  Peggotty  should  be  quietly  entrusted 
the  discretion  of  advancing  another  hundred.  I  further  proposed  to  interest  Mr. 
Micawber  in  Mr.  Peggotty,  by  confiding  so  much  of  Mr.  Peggotty's  story  to  him  as  I 
might  feel  justified  in  relating,  or  might  think  expedient ;  and  to  endeavour  to  bring 
each  of  them  to  bear  upon  the  other,  for  the  common  advantage.  We  all  entered 
warmly  into  these  views  ;  and  I  may  mention  at  once,  that  the  principals  themselves 
did  so,  shortly  afterwards,  with  perfect  good-will  and  harmony. 

Seeing  that  Traddles  now  glanced  anxiously  at  my  aunt  again,  I  reminded  him 
of  the  second  and  last  point  to  which  he  had  adverted. 

'  You  and  your  aunt  will  excuse  me,  Copperfield,  if  I  touch  upon  a  painful  theme, 
as  I  greatly  fear  I  shall,'  said  Traddles,  hesitating  ;  '  but  I  think  it  necessary  to  bring 
it  to  your  recollection.  On  the  day  of  Mr.  Micawber's  memorable  denunciation,  a 
threatening  allusion  was  made  by  Uriah  Heep  to  your  aimt's — husband.' 

My  aunt,  retaining  her  stiff  position,  and  apparent  composure,  assented  with 
a  nod. 

'  Perhaps,'  observed  Traddles,  '  it  was  mere  purposeless  impertinence  ?  ' 
'  No,'  returned  my  aunt. 


MR.  MKJAVVIiEH'H  TRANSACTIONS  509 

'  There  was-panloii  iiie  icully  such  a  person,  and  at  all  in  his  power  ?  '  hinted 
Traddles. 

'  Yes,  my  good  friend,'  said  my  aunt. 

Traddles,  with  a  pereejitihle  lenpthcniiif?  of  his  face,  exj)Iained  that  he  had  not 
been  able  to  apj)roaeh  this  suiiject  ;  that  it  had  shared  tlie  fate  of  Mr.  Mieawber's 
liabilities,  in  not  being  comprehended  in  the  terms  he  had  made  ;  that  we  were  no 
longer  of  any  authority  with  Ui'iah  Ileej)  ;  and  tliat  if  he  could  rlo  us,  or  any  of  us, 
any  injury  or  annoyance,  no  doubt  he  would. 

My  aunt  remained  quiet ;  until  again  some  stray  tears  found  their  way  to  her 
cheeks. 

'  You  are  quite  right,'  she  said.     '  It  was  very  thuugliLful  to  mention  it.' 

'  Can  I — or  Copperfield — do  anything  ?  '    asked  Traddles,  gently. 

'  Nothing,'  said  my  aunt.  '  I  thank  you  many  times.  Trot,  my  dear,  a  vain 
threat  !  Let  us  have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mieawber  back.  And  don't  any  of  you  speak 
to  me  !  '  With  that  she  smoothed  her  dress,  and  sat,  with  her  upright  carriage, 
looking  at  the  door. 

'  Well,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  !  '  said  my  aunt,  when  they  entered.  '  We  have 
been  discussing  your  emigration,  with  many  apologies  to  you  for  keeping  you  out  of 
the  room  so  long  ;  and  I  '11  tell  you  what  arrangements  we  propose.' 

These  she  explained  to  the  unbounded  satisfaction  of  the  family — children  and 
all  being  then  present — and  so  much  to  the  awakening  of  Mr.  Mieawber's  punctual 
habits  in  the  opening  stage  of  all  bill  transactions,  that  he  could  not  be  dissuaded  from 
immediately  rushing  out,  in  the  highest  spirits,  to  buy  the  stamps  for  his  notes-of- 
hand.  But,  his  joy  received  a  sudden  check  ;  for  within  five  minutes,  he  returned 
in  the  custody  of  a  sheriff's  officer,  informing  us,  in  a  flood  of  tears,  that  all  was  lost. 
We,  being  quite  prepared  for  this  event,  which  was  of  course  a  proceeding  of  Uriah 
Heep's,  soon  paid  the  money  ;  and  in  five  minutes  more  Mr.  Micawber  was  seated  at 
the  table,  filling  up  the  stamps  with  an  expression  of  perfect  joy,  which  only  that 
congenial  employment,  or  the  making  of  punch,  could  impart  in  full  completeness 
to  his  shining  face.  To  see  him  at  work  on  the  stamps,  with  the  relish  of  an  artist, 
touching  them  like  pictures,  looking  at  them  sideways,  taking  weighty  notes  of  dates 
and  amounts  in  his  pocket-book,  and  contemplating  them  when  finished,  with  a  high 
sense  of  their  precious  value,  was  a  sight  indeed. 

'  Now,  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  sir,  if  you  '11  allow  me  to  advise  you,'  said  my 
aunt,  after  silently  observing  him,  '  is  to  abjure  that  occupation  for  evermore.' 

'  Madam,'  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  '  it  is  my  intention  to  register  such  a  vow  on  the 
virigin  page  of  the  future.  Mrs.  Micawber  will  attest  it.  I  trust,'  said  Mr.  ^licawber, 
solemnly,  '  that  my  son  Wilkins  will  ever  bear  in  mind,  that  he  had  infinitely  better 
put  his  fist  in  the  fire,  than  use  it  to  handle  the  serpents  that  have  poisoned  the 
life-blood  of  his  unhappy  parent  !  '  Deeply  affected,  and  changed  in  a  moment  to 
the  image  of  despair,  Mr.  Micawber  regarded  the  serpents  with  a  look  of  gloomy 
abhorrence  (in  which  his  late  admiration  of  them  was  not  quite  subdued),  folded 
them  up  and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 

This  closed  the  proceedings  of  the  evening.  We  were  weary  with  sorrow  and 
fatigue,  and  my  aunt  and  I  were  to  return  to  London  on  the  morrow.  It  was  arranged 
that  the  Micawbers  should  follow  us,  after  effecting  a  sale  of  their  goods  to  a  broker  ; 
that  Mr.  Wiekfield's  affairs  should  be  brought  to  a  settlement,  with  all  convenient 
speed,  under  the  direction  of  Traddles  ;   and  that  Agnes  should  also  come  to  London, 


510  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

pending  those  arrangements.  We  passed  the  night  at  the  old  house,  which,  freed  from 
the  presence  of  the  Heeps,  seemed  purged  of  a  disease  ;  and  I  lay  in  my  old  room, 
like  a  shipwrecked  wanderer  come  home. 

We  went  back  next  day  to  my  aunt's  house — not  to  mine  ;  and  when  she  and  I 
sat  alone,  as  of  old,  before  going  to  bed,  she  said — 

'  Trot,  do  you  really  wish  to  know  what  I  have  had  upon  my  mind  lately  ?  ' 
'  Indeed  I  do,  aunt.     If  there  ever  was  a  time  when  I  felt  unwilling  that  you 
should  have  a  sorrow  or  anxiety  which  I  could  not  share,  it  is  now.' 

'  You  have  had  sorrow  enough,  child,'  said  my  aunt,  affectionately,  '  without 
the  addition  of  my  little  miseries.  I  could  have  no  other  motive,  Trot,  in  keeping 
anything  from  you.' 

'  I  know  that  well,'  said  I.     '  But  tell  me  now.' 

'  Would  you  ride  with  me  a  little  way  to-morrow  morning  ?  '    asked  my  aunt. 
'  Of  course.' 

'  At  nine,'  said  she.     '  I  '11  tell  you  then,  my  dear.' 

At  nine,  accordingly,  we  went  out  in  a  little  chariot,  and  drove  to  London.  We 
drove  a  long  way  through  the  streets  until  we  came  to  one  of  the  large  hospitals. 
Standing  hard  by  the  building  was  a  plain  hearse.  The  driver  recognised  my  aunt, 
and  in  obedience  to  a  motion  of  her  hand  at  the  window,  drove  slowly  off ;  we 
following. 

'  You  understand  it  now,  Trot,'  said  my  aunt.     '  He  is  gone  !  ' 
'  Did  he  die  in  the  hospital  ?  * 
'  Yes.' 

She  sat  inunovable  beside  me  ;   but,  again  I  saw  the  stray  tears  on  her  face. 
'  He  was  there  once  before,'  said  my  aunt  presently.     '  He  was  ailing  a  long 
time — a  shattered,  broken  man,  these  many  years.     When  he  knew  his  state  in  this 
last  illness,  he  asked  them  to  send  for  me.     He  was  sorry  then.     Very  sorry.' 
■  '  You  went,  I  know,  aunt.' 
'  I  went.     I  was  with  him  a  good  deal  afterwards.' 
'  He  died  the  night  before  we  went  to  Canterbury  ?  '   said  I. 

My  aunt  nodded.     '  No  one  can  harm  him  now,'  she  said.     '  It  was  a  vain  threat.' 
We  drove  away,  out  of  town,  to  the  churchyard  at  Hornsey.     '  Better  here  than 
in  the  streets,'  said  my  aunt.     '  He  was  born  here.' 

We  alighted  ;  and  followed  the  plain  coffin  to  a  corner  I  remember  well,  where 
the  service  was  read  consigning  it  to  the  dust. 

'  Six-and-thirty  years  ago,  this  day,  my  dear,'  said  my  aunt,  as  we  walked  back 
to  the  chariot,  '  I  was  married.     God  forgive  us  all  !  ' 

We  took  our  seats  in  silence  ;  and  so  she  sat  beside  me  for  a  long  time,  holding 
my  hand.     At  length  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears,  and  said — 

'  He  was  a  fine-looking  man  when  I  married  him.  Trot — and  he  was  sadly 
changed  !  ' 

It  did  not  last  long.  After  the  relief  of  tears,  she  soon  became  composed,  and 
even  cheerful.  Her  nerves  were  a  little  shaken,  she  said,  or  she  would  not  have 
given  way  to  it.     God  forgive  us  all  ! 

So  we  rode  back  to  her  little  cottage  at  Highgate,  where  we  found  the  following 
short  note,  which  had  arrived  by  that  morning's  post  from  Mr.  Micawber  : — 


TEMPEST  511 

'  Cantbhbukv, 

'  l-'ridiiy. 

'  My  dkar  Madam,  and  CoppEnFiELD, 

'  The  fair  land  of  promise  lately  looming  on  the  horizon  is  again  enveloped 
in  impenetral)lc  mists,  and  for  ever  withdrawn  from  the  eyes  of  a  drifting  wretch  whose 
Doom  is  sealed  ! 

'  Another  writ  has  lieen  issued  (in  His  Majesty's  High  Court  of  King's  Heneh 
at  Westminster),  in  another  cause  of  IIkki'  v.  Micawbek,  and  the  defendant  in  tliat 
cause  is  the  prey  of  the  sheriff  having  legal  jurisdiction  in  this  bailiwick. 

'"Now's  the  day,  iind  now 's  the  hour. 
See  the  front  of  huttlc  lower, 
See  approach  proud  Kdwahd's  power — 
Chains  and  slavery  !  " 

Consigned  to  which,  and  to  a  speedy  end  (for  mental  torture  is  not  supportable  beyond 
a  certain  point,  and  that  point  I  feel  I  have  attained),  my  course  is  rtm.  Bless  you. 
bless  you  !  Some  future  traveller,  visiting,  from  motives  of  curiosity,  not  unmingled, 
let  us  hope,  with  sympathy,  the  place  of  confinement  allotted  to  debtors  in  this  city, 
and  may  I  trust  will.  Ponder,  as  he  traces  on  its  wall,  inscribed  with  a  rusty  nail, 

'  The  obscure  initials 

'  VV.  M. 

'  P.S.  I  re-open  this  to  say  that  our  common  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  (who 
has  not  yet  left  us,  and  is  looking  extremely  well),  has  paid  the  debt  and  costs,  in 
the  noble  name  of  Miss  Trotwood  ;  and  that  myself  and  family  are  at  the  height  of 
earthly  bliss.' 


CHAPTER    LV 

TEMPEST 

I  NOW  approach  an   event  in   my  life,  so  indelible,  so  awful,  so  bound  by  an 
infinite  variety  of  ties  to  all  that  has  preceded  it,  in  these  pages,  that,  from 
the  beginning  of  my  narrative,  I  have  seen  it  growing  larger  and  larger  as  I 
advanced,  like  a  great  tower  in  a  plain,  and  throwing  its  fore-cast  shadow 
even  on  the  incidents  of  my  childish  days. 

For  years  after  it  occurred,  I  dreamed  of  it  often.  I  have  started  up  so  vividly 
impressed  by  it,  that  its  fury  has  yet  seemed  raging  in  my  quiet  room,  in  the  still 
night.  I  dream  of  it  sometimes,  though  at  lengthened  and  uncertain  inters'als,  to  this 
hour.  I  have  an  association  between  it  and  a  stormy  wind,  or  the  lightest  mention  of 
a  sea-shore,  as  strong  as  any  of  which  my  mind  is  conscious.  As  plainly  as  I  behold 
what  happened,  I  will  try  to  wTite  it  down.  I  do  not  recall  it,  but  see  it  done  ;  for  it 
happens  again  before  me. 

The  time  drawing  on  rapidly  for  the  sailing  of  the  emigrant-ship,  my  good  old 
nurse  (almost  broken-hearted  for  me,  when  we  first  met)  came  up  to  London.  I 
was  constantly  with  her,  and  her  brother,  and  the  Micawbers  (they  being  very  much 
together)  ;    but  Emily  I  never  saw. 


512  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

One  evening  when  the  time  was  close  at  hand,  I  was  alone  with  Peggotty  and  her 
brother.  Our  conversation  turned  on  Ham.  She  described  to  us  how  tenderly  he 
had  taken  leave  of  her,  and  how  manfully  and  quietly  he  had  borne  himself.  Most 
of  all,  of  late,  when  she  beheved  he  was  most  tried.  It  was  a  subject  of  which  the 
affectionate  creature  never  tired  ;  and  our  interest  in  hearing  the  many  examples 
which  she,  who  was  so  much  with  him,  had  to  relate,  was  equal  to  hers  in  relating 
them. 

My  aunt  and  I  were  at  that  time  vacating  the  two  cottages  at  Highgate  ;  I 
intending  to  go  abroad,  and  she  to  return  to  her  house  at  Dover.  We  had  a  temporary 
lodging  in  Covent  Garden.  As  I  walked  home  to  it,  after  this  evening's  conversation, 
reflecting  on  what  had  passed  between  Ham  and  myself  when  I  was  last  at  Yarmouth, 
I  wavered  in  the  original  purpose  I  had  formed,  of  leaving  a  letter  for  Emily  when  I 
should  take  leave  of  her  uncle  on  board  the  ship,  and  thought  it  would  be  better  to 
write  to  her  now.  She  might  desire,  I  thought,  after  receiving  my  communication, 
to  send  some  parting  word  by  me  to  her  unhappy  lover.  I  ought  to  give  her  the 
opportunity. 

I  therefore  sat  down  in  my  room,  before  going  to  bed,  and  wrote  to  her.  I  told 
her  that  I  had  seen  him,  and  that  he  had  requested  me  to  tell  her  what  I  have  already 
written  in  its  place  in  these  sheets.  I  faithfully  repeated  it.  I  had  no  need  to  enlarge 
upon  it,  if  I  had  had  the  right.  Its  deep  fidelity  and  goodness  were  not  to  be  adorned 
by  me  or  any  man.  I  left  it  out,  to  be  sent  round  in  the  morning  ;  with  a  line  to 
Mr.  Peggotty,  requesting  him  to  give  it  to  her  ;   and  went  to  bed  at  daybreak. 

I  was  weaker  than  I  knew  then  ;  and,  not  falling  asleep  until  the  sun  was  up, 
lay  late,  and  unrefreshed,  next  day.  I  was  roused  by  the  silent  presence  of  my  aunt 
at  my  bedside.     I  felt  it  in  my  sleep,  as  I  suppose  we  all  do  feel  such  things. 

'  Trot,  my  dear,'  she  said,  when  I  opened  my  eyes,  '  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind 
to  disturb  you.     Mr.  Peggotty  is  here  ;    shall  he  come  up  ?  ' 

I  replied  yes,  and  he  soon  appeared. 

'  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  said,  when  we  had  shaken  hands,  '  I  giv  Em'Iy  your  letter,  sir, 
and  she  writ  this  heer  ;  and  begged  of  me  fur  to  ask  you  to  read  it,  and  if  you  see  no 
hurt  in  't,  to  be  so  kind  as  take  charge  on  't.' 

'  Have  you  read  it  ?  '    said  I. 

He  nodded  sorrowfully.     I  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows  : — 

'  I  have  got  your  message.  Oh,  what  can  I  \vrite,  to  thank  you  for  your  good  and 
blessed  kindness  to  me  ! 

'  I  have  put  the  words  close  to  my  heart.  I  shall  keep  them  till  I  die.  They  are  sharp 
thorns,  but  they  are  such  comfort.  I  have  prayed  over  them,  oh,  I  have  prayed  so  much. 
When  I  find  what  you  are,  and  what  uncle  is,  I  think  what  God  must  be,  and  can  cry 
to  him. 

'  Good-bye  for  ever.  Now,  my  dear,  my  friend,  good-bye  for  ever  in  this  world.  In 
another  world,  if  I  am  forgiven,  I  may  wake  a  child  and  come  to  you.  All  thanks  and 
blessings.     Farewell,  evermore.' 

This,  blotted  with  tears,  was  the  letter. 

'  May  I  tell  her  as  you  doen't  see  no  hurt  in  't,  and  as  you  '11  be  so  kind  as  take 
charge  on  't,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  '    said  Mr.  Peggotty,  when  I  had  read  it. 

'  Unquestionably,'  said  I — '  but  I  am  thinking ' 

'  Yes,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  ' 

'  I  am  thinking,'  said  I,  '  that  I  '11  go  down  again  to  Yarmouth.     There  's  time, 


ti<:mi'i:st  513 

;in(l  Lo  spare,  for  rnc  lo  (,'(j  and  conic  liack  before  llic  sliip  sails.  My  iiiitid  is  coiistaiitJy 
niimiiig  on  him,  in  his  soiiludc  ;  lo  pnL  this  letter  of  her  writinfj  in  his  hand  at  this 
time,  and  to  enable  you  to  tell  her,  in  the  moment  of  parting,  that  he  has  got  it,  wiJI 
he  a  kindness  lo  l)olh  of  them.  I  solemnly  accepted  his  commission,  dear  good  fellow, 
and  cannot  discharge  it  too  coinj)leteIy.  The  journey  is  nothing  to  me.  I  am  rest- 
less, and  shall  be  better  in  motion.     I  'II  go  down  to-night.' 

Though  he  anxiously  endeavoured  to  dissuade  me,  I  saw  tlial  he  was  of  my  mind  ; 
and  this,  if  I  had  rcciuircd  to  be  eonlirmed  in  my  intention,  would  have  had  the  effe<'t. 
He  went  round  to  the  eoach-oflice,  at  my  request,  and  took  the  box-seat  for  me  on 
the  mail.  In  the  evening  I  started,  by  t  hat  conveyance,  down  the  road  T  li;id  I  raversed 
under  so  many  vicissitudes. 

'  Don't  you  think  that,'  I  asked  the  coachman,  in  the  first  stage  out  of  London, 
'  a  very  remarkal)Ie  sky  ?     I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  one  like  it.' 

'  Nor  I — not  equal  to  it,'  he  replied.  '  That  's  wind,  sir.  There  'II  be  mischief 
done  at  sea,  I  expect,  before  long.' 

It  was  a  murky  confusion — here  and  there  blotted  with  a  colour  like  the  colour 
of  the  smoke  from  damp  fuel — of  flying  clouds  tossed  up  into  most  remarkable  heaps, 
suggesting  greater  heights  in  the  clouds  than  there  were  depths  below  them  to  the 
bottom  of  the  deepest  hollows  in  the  earth,  through  which  the  wild  moon  .seemed  to 
plunge  headlong,  as  if,  in  a  dread  disturbance  of  the  laws  of  nature,  she  had  lost  her 
way  and  were  frightened.  There  had  been  a  wind  all  day  ;  and  it  was  rising  then, 
with  an  extraordinary  great  sound.  In  another  hour  it  had  much  increased,  and  the 
sky  was  more  overcast,  and  blew  hard. 

But  as  the  night  advanced,  the  clouds  closing  in  and  densely  overspreading  the 
whole  sky,  then  very  dark,  it  came  on  to  blow,  harder  and  harder.  It  still  increased, 
until  our  horses  could  scarcely  face  the  wind.  Many  times,  in  the  dark  part  of  the 
night  (it  was  then  late  in  September,  when  the  nights  were  not  short),  the  leaders 
turned  about,  or  came  to  a  dead  stop  ;  and  we  were  often  in  serious  apprehension 
that  the  coach  would  be  blown  over.  Sweeping  gusts  of  rain  came  up  before  this 
storm,  like  showers  of  steel  ;  and,  at  those  times,  when  there  was  any  shelter  of  trees 
or  lee  walls  to  be  got,  we  were  fain  to  stop,  in  a  sheer  impossil)ility  of  continuing  the 
struggle. 

When  the  day  broke,  it  blew  harder  and  harder.  I  had  been  in  Yarmouth  when 
the  seamen  said  it  blew  great  guns,  but  I  had  never  known  the  like  of  this,  or  anything 
approaching  to  it.  We  came  to  Ipswich — ^very  late,  having  had  to  fight  every  inch 
of  ground  since  we  were  ten  miles  out  of  London  ;  and  found  a  cluster  of  peo])lc  in  the 
market-place,  who  had  risen  from  their  beds  in  the  night,  fearful  of  falling  chimneys. 
Some  of  these,  congregating  about  the  inn-yard  while  we  changed  horses,  told  us  of 
great  sheets  of  lead  having  been  ripped  off  a  high  chiu'ch-towcr.  and  flung  into  a  bj- 
street,  which  they  then  blocked  up.  Others  had  to  tell  of  country  people,  coming  in 
from  neighbouring  villages,  who  had  seen  great  trees  lying  torn  out  of  the  earth,  and 
whole  ricks  scattered  about  the  roads  and  fields.  Still,  there  was  no  abatement  in  the 
storm,  but  it  blew  harder. 

As  we  struggled  on,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  sea,  from  which  this  mighty  wind 
was  blowing  dead  on  shore,  its  force  became  more  and  more  terrific.  Long  before 
we  saw  the  sea,  its  spray  was  on  our  lips,  and  showered  salt  rain  upon  us.  The  water 
was  out,  over  miles  and  miles  of  the  flat  country  adjacent  to  Yarmouth  ;  and  every 
sheet  and  puddle  lashed  its  banks,  and  had  its  stress  of  little  breakers  setting  hea%nly 


514  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

towards  us.  \Vhen  we  came  within  sight  of  the  sea,  the  waves  on  the  horizon,  caught 
at  intervals  above  the  rolling  abyss,  were  I'ke  glimpses  of  another  shore  with  towers 
and  buildings.  When  at  last  we  got  into  the  town,  the  people  came  out  to  their 
doors,  all  aslant,  and  with  streaming  hair,  making  a  wonder  of  the  mail  that  had  come 
through  such  a  night. 

I  put  up  at  the  old  inn,  and  went  down  to  look  at  the  sea  ;  staggering  along  the 
street,  which  was  strewn  with  sand  and  seaweed,  and  with  flying  blotches  of  sea-foam  ; 
afraid  of  falling  slates  and  tiles  ;  and  holding  by  people  I  met,  at  angry  corners. 
Coming  near  the  beach,  I  saw,  not  only  the  boatmen,  but  half  the  people  of  the  town, 
lurking  behind  buildings  ;  some,  now  and  then  braving  the  fury  of  the  storm  to  look 
away  to  sea,  and  blown  sheer  out  of  their  course  in  trying  to  get  zigzag  back. 

Joining  these  groups,  I  found  bewailing  women  whose  husbands  were  away  in 
herring  or  oyster  boats,  which  there  was  too  much  reason  to  think  might  have 
foundered  before  they  could  run  in  anywhere  for  safety.  Grizzled  old  sailors  were 
among  the  people,  shaking  their  heads  as  they  looked  from  water  to  sky,  and  mutter- 
ing to  one  another  ;  shipowners,  excited  and  uneasy  ;  children,  huddling  together, 
and  peering  into  older  faces ;  even  stout  mariners,  disturbed  and  anxious,  levelling 
their  glasses  at  the  sea  from  behind  places  of  shelter,  as  if  they  were  surveying  an 
enemy. 

The  tremendous  sea  itself,  when  I  could  find  sufficient  pause  to  look  at  it,  in  the 
agitation  of  the  blinding  wind,  the  flying  stones  and  sand,  and  the  awful  noise,  con- 
founded me.  As  the  high  watery  walls  came  rolling  in,  and,  at  their  highest,  tumbled 
into  surf,  they  looked  as  if  the  least  would  engulf  the  town.  As  the  receding  wave 
swept  back  with  a  hoarse  roar,  it  seemed  to  scoop  out  deep  caves  in  the  beach,  as  if 
its  purpose  were  to  undermine  the  earth.  When  some  white-headed  billows  thundered 
on,  and  dashed  themselves  to  pieces  before  they  reached  the  land,  every  fragment 
of  the  late  whole  seemed  possessed  by  the  full  might  of  its  wrath,  rushing  to  be 
gathered  to  the  composition  of  another  monster.  Undulating  hills  were  changed  to 
valleys,  undulating  valleys  (with  a  solitary  storm-bird  sometimes  skimming  through 
them)  were  lifted  up  to  hills  ;  masses  of  water  shivered  and  shook  the  beach  with  a 
booming  sound  ;  every  shape  tumultuously  rolled  on,  as  soon  as  made,  to  change  its 
shape  and  place,  and  beat  another  shape  and  place  awaj-  ;  the  ideal  shore  on  the 
horizon,  with  its  towers  and  buildings,  rose  and  fell ;  the  clouds  flew  fast  and  thick  ; 
I  seemed  to  see  a  rending  and  upheaving  of  all  nature. 

Not  finding  Ham  among  the  people  whom  this  memorable  wind — for  it  is  still 
remembered  down  there,  as  the  greatest  ever  known  to  blow  upon  that  coast — had 
brought  together,  I  made  my  way  to  his  house.  It  was  shut ;  and  as  no  one  answered 
to  my  knocking,  I  went,  by  back-ways  and  by-lanes,  to  the  yard  where  he  worked. 
I  learned,  there,  that  he  had  gone  to  Lowestoft,  to  meet  some  sudden  exigency  of 
ship-repairing  in  which  his  skill  was  required  ;  but  that  he  would  be  back  to-morrow 
morning,  in  good  time. 

I  went  back  to  the  inn  ;  and  when  I  had  washed  and  dressed,  and  tried  to  sleep, 
but  in  vain,  it  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I  had  not  sat  five  minutes  by  the 
coffee-room  fire,  when  the  waiter  coming  to  stir  it,  as  an  excuse  for  talking,  told  me 
that  two  colliers  had  gone  down,  with  all  hands,  a  few  miles  away  ;  and  that  some 
other  ships  had  been  seen  labom-ing  hard  in  the  Roads,  and  trying,  in  great  distress, 
to  keep  off  shore.  Mercy  on  them,  and  on  all  poor  sailors,  said  he,  if  we  had  another 
night  like  the  last  ! 


TEMPEST  515 

T  was  very  nmch  depressed  in  spirits  ;  very  solitary  ;  and  felt  an  uneasiness  in 
Ham's  not  bcinp  tlierc,  disproportionate  to  the  occasion.  I  was  seriously  affected, 
without  knowing;  how  much,  liy  lute  events  ;  and  my  lonj;  exposure  to  the  fierce  wind 
had  confused  me.  There  was  that  jumble  in  my  thoughts  and  recollections,  that  I 
had  lost  the  clear  arrangement  of  time  and  distance.  Thus,  if  I  had  gone  out  into  the 
town,  I  should  not  have  been  surprised,  I  think,  to  ciKounter  some  one  who  I  knew 
must  be  then  in  London.  So  to  speak,  there  was  in  these  respects  a  curious  inattention 
in  my  mind.  Yet  it  was  busy,  too,  with  .ill  the  remembrances  the  place  naturally 
awakened  ;   and  they  were  particularly  distinct  and  vivid. 

In  this  state,  the  waiter's  dismal  intelligence  about  the  ships  immediately 
connected  itself,  without  any  effort  of  m\-  volition,  with  my  uneasiness  about  Ham. 
I  was  persuaded  that  I  had  an  apprehension  of  his  returning  from  Lowestoft  by  sea, 
and  being  lost.  This  grew  so  strong  with  me,  that  I  resolved  to  go  back  to  the  yard 
before  I  took  my  dinner,  and  ask  the  boat-builder  if  he  thought  his  attempting  to 
return  by  sea  at  all  likely  ?  If  he  gave  me  the  least  reason  to  think  so,  I  would  "go 
over  to  Lowestoft  and  prevent  it  by  bringing  him  with  me. 

I  hastily  ordered  my  dinner,  and  went  back  to  the  j'ard.  I  was  none  too  soon  ; 
for  the  boat-builder,  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  was  locking  the  yard-gate.  He  quite 
laughed,  when  I  asked  him  the  question,  and  said  there  was  no  fear  :  no  man  in  his 
senses,  or  out  of  them,  would  put  off  in  such  a  gale  of  wind,  least  of  all  Ham  Peggotty, 
who  had  been  born  to  seafaring. 

So  sensible  of  this,  beforehand,  that  I  had  really  felt  ashamed  of  doing  what  I 
was  nevertheless  impelled  to  do,  I  went  back  to  the  inn.  If  such  a  wind  could  rise, 
I  think  it  was  rising.  The  howl  and  roar,  the  rattling  of  the  doors  and  windows,  the 
rumbling  in  the  chimneys,  the  apparent  rocking  of  the  very  house  that  sheltered  me, 
and  the  prodigious  tumult  of  the  sea,  were  more  fearful  than  in  the  morning.  But 
there  was  now  a  great  darkness  besides  ;  and  that  invested  the  storm  with  new  terrors, 
real  and  fanciful. 

I  could  not  eat,  I  could  not  sit  still,  I  could  not  continue  steadfast  to  anything. 
Something  within  me,  faintly  answering  to  the  storm  without,  tossed  up  the  depths 
of  my  memory,  and  made  a  tumult  in  them.  Yet,  in  all  the  hurry  of  my  thoughts, 
wild  running  with  the  thundering  sea, — the  storm  and  my  uneasiness  regarding  Ham, 
were  always  in  the  foreground. 

My  dinner  went  away  almost  untasted,  and  I  tried  to  refresh  myself  with  a  glass 
or  two  of  wine.  In  vain.  I  fell  into  a  dull  slumber  before  the  fire,  without  losing  my 
consciousness,  either  of  the  uproar  out  of  doors,  or  of  the  place  in  which  I  was.  Both 
became  overshadowed  by  a  new  and  indefinable  horror  ;  and  when  I  awoke — or 
rather  when  I  shook  off  the  lethargy  that  bound  me  in  my  chair — my  whole  frame 
thrilled  with  objectless  and  unintelligible  fear. 

I  walked  to  and  fro,  tried  to  read  an  old  gazetteer,  listened  to  the  a^\-ful  noises  ; 
looked  at  faces,  scenes,  and  figures  in  the  fire.  At  length,  the  steady  ticking  of  the 
undisturbed  clock  on  the  wall,  tormented  me  to  that  degree  that  I  resolved  to  go 
to  bed. 

It  was  reassuring,  on  such  a  night,  to  be  told  that  some  of  the  inn-servants  had 
agreed  together  to  sit  up  until  morning.  I  went  to  bed,  exceedingly  weary  and  hea\'y'  ; 
but,  on  my  lying  down,  all  such  sensations  vanished,  as  if  by  magic,  and  I  was  broad- 
awake,  with  every  sense  refined. 

For  hours  I  lay  there,  listening  to  the  wind  and  water ;   imagining,  now,  that  I 


516  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

heard  shrieks  out  at  sea  ;  now,  that  I  distinctly  heard  the  firing  of  signal  guns  ;  and 
now,  the  fall  of  houses  in  the  town.  I  goc  up,  several  times,  and  looked  out ;  but 
could  see  nothing,  except  the  reflection  in  the  window-panes  of  the  faint  candle  I  had 
left  burning,  and  of  my  own  haggard  face  looking  in  at  me  from  the  black  void. 

At  length,  my  restlessness  attained  to  such  a  pitch,  that  I  hurried  on  my  clothes, 
and  went  downstairs.  In  the  large  kitchen,  where  I  dimly  saw  bacon  and  ropes  of 
onions  hanging  from  the  beams,  the  watchers  were  clustered  together,  in  various 
attitudes,  about  a  table,  purposely  moved  away  from  the  great  chimney,  and  brought 
near  the  door.  A  pretty  girl,  who  had  her  ears  stopped  with  her  apron,  and  her  eyes 
upon  the  door,  screamed  when  I  appeared,  supjjosing  me  to  be  a  spirit  ;  but  the  others 
had  more  presence  of  mind,  and  were  glad  of  an  addition  to  their  company.  One 
man,  referring  to  the  topic  they  had  been  discussing,  asked  me  whether  I  thought 
the  souls  of  the  collier-crews  who  had  gone  down,  were  out  in  the  storm  ? 

I  remained  there,  I  dare  say,  two  hours.  Once,  I  opened  the  jard-gate,  and 
looked  into  the  empty  street.  The  sand,  the  sea-weed,  and  the  flakes  of  foam,  were 
driving  by  ;  and  I  was  obliged  to  call  for  assistance  before  I  could  shut  the  gate  again, 
and  make  it  fast  against  the  wind. 

There  was  a  dark  gloom  in  my  solitary  chamber,  when  I  at  length  returned  to 
it ;  but  I  was  tired  now,  and,  getting  into  bed  again,  fell — off  a  tower  and  down  a 
precipice — into  the  depths  of  sleep.  I  have  an  impression  that  for  a  long  time,  though 
I  dreamed  of  being  elsewhere  and  in  a  variety  of  scenes,  it  was  always  blowing  in 
my  dream.  At  length,  I  lost  that  feeble  hold  upon  reality,  and  was  engaged  with  two 
dear  friends,  but  who  they  were  I  don't  know,  at  the  siege  of  some  town  in  a  roar  of 
cannonading. 

The  thunder  of  the  cannon  was  so  loud  and  incessant,  that  I  could  not  hear 
something  I  much  desired  to  hear,  until  I  made  a  great  exertion  and  awoke.  It  was 
broad  day — eight  or  nine  o'clock  ;  the  storm  raging,  in  lieu  of  the  batteries  ;  and  some- 
one knocking  and  calling  at  my  door. 

'  What  is  the  matter  ?  '    I  cried. 

'  A  wreck  !     Close  by  !  ' 

I  sprung  out  of  bed,  and  asked,  what  wreck  ? 

'  A  schooner,  from  Spain  or  Portugal,  laden  with  fruit  and  wine.  Make  haste, 
sir,  if  you  Avant  to  see  her !  It  's  thought,  down  on  the  beach,  she  'II  go  to  pieces 
every  moment.' 

The  excited  voice  went  clamouring  along  the  staircase  ;  and  I  wrapped  myself 
in  my  clothes  as  quickly  as  I  could,  and  ran  into  the  street. 

Numbers  of  people  were  there  before  me,  all  running  in  one  direction,  to  the 
beach.  I  ran  the  same  way,  outstripping  a  good  many,  and  soon  came  facing  the 
wild  sea. 

The  wind  might  by  this  time  have  lulled  a  little,  though  not  more  sensibly  than  if 
the  cannonading  I  had  dreamed  of,  had  been  diminished  by  the  silencing  of  half  a  dozen 
guns  out  of  hundreds.  But,  the  sea,  having  upon  it  the  additional  agitation  of  the 
whole  night,  was  infinitely  more  terrific  than  when  I  had  seen  it  last.  Every  appear- 
ance it  had  then  presented,  bore  the  expression  of  being  szvclled ;  and  the  height  to 
which  the  breakers  rose,  and,  looking  over  one  another,  bore  one  another  down,  and 
rolled  in,  in  interminable  hosts,  was  most  appalling. 

In  the  ditliculty  of  hearing  anything  but  wind  and  waves,  and  in  the  crowd, 
and  the  unspeakable  confusion,  and  my  first  breathless  efforts  to  stand  against  the 


TKMPEST  517 

weather,  I  was  so  oonfiised  thai  I  looked  out  to  sou  for  tlu!  wrcek,  and  saw  nolliiii)^ 
but  tlie  foaniiiifr  heads  of  the  ^Teal  waves.  A  half-dressed  hoatnian,  standinj,'  next 
me,  pointed  with  his  hare  arm  (a  tattoo'd  arrow  on  it,  pointing  in  the  same  direction) 
to  the  left.     Then,  ()  <rTc;d  Heaven  I  saw  it,  elose  in  upon  us  ! 

One  mast  was  broken  short  off,  six  or  eight  feet  from  the  deek,  and  lay  over  the 
side,  entangled  in  a  maze  of  sail  and  rigging  ;  and  all  that  ruin,  as  the  ship  rolled 
and  beat  -whieh  she  did  without  a  moment's  pause,  and  with  a  viojeiiee  quite  incon- 
ceivable beat  the  side  as  if  it  would  stave  it  in.  Some  efforts  were  even  then  being 
made,  to  cut  this  portion  of  the  wreck  away  ;  for,  as  the  ship,  which  was  broadside 
on,  turned  towards  us  in  her  rolling,  I  plainly  descried  her  people  at  work  with  axes, 
especially  one  active  figure  with  long  curling  hair,  conspicuous  among  the  rest.  But, 
a  great  cry,  which  was  audible  even  above  the  wind  and  water,  rose  from  the  shore 
at  this  moment ;  the  sea,  sweeping  over  the  rolling  wreck,  made  a  clean  breach,  and 
carried  men,  spars,  casks,  planks,  bulwarks,  heaps  of  such  toys,  into  the  boiling  surge. 

The  second  mast  was  yet  standing,  with  the  rags  of  a  rent  sail,  and  a  wild  confusion 
of  broken  cordage  flapping  to  and  fro.  The  ship  had  struck  once,  the  same  boatman 
hoarsely  said  in  my  ear,  and  then  lifted  in  and  struck  again.  I  undcrstotjd  him  to  add 
that  she  was  parting  amidships,  and  I  could  readily  suppose  so,  for  the  rolling  and 
beating  were  too  tremendous  for  any  human  work  to  suffer  long.  As  he  spoke,  there 
was  another  great  cry  of  pity  from  the  beach  ;  four  men  arose  with  the  wreck  out  of 
the  deep,  clinging  to  the  rigging  of  the  remaining  mast ;  uppermost,  the  active  figure 
with  the  curling  hair. 

There  was  a  bell  on  board  ;  and  as  the  ship  rolled  and  dashed,  like  a  desperate 
creature  driven  mad,  now  showing  us  the  whole  sweep  of  her  deck,  as  she  turned  on 
her  beam-ends  towards  the  shore,  now  nothing  but  her  keel,  as  she  sprung  wildlv  over 
and  turned  towards  the  sea,  the  bell  rang  ;  and  its  sound,  the  knell  of  those  unhappy 
men,  was  borne  towards  us  on  the  wind.  Again  we  lost  her,  and  again  she  rose.  Two 
men  were  gone.  The  agony  on  shore  increased.  Men  groaned,  and  clasped  their 
hands  ;  women  shrieked,  and  turned  away  their  faces.  Some  ran  wildly  up  and  down 
along  the  beach,  crying  for  help  where  no  help  could  be.  I  found  myself  one  of 
these,  frantically  imploring  a  knot  of  sailors  whom  I  knew,  not  to  let  those  two  lost 
creatures  perish  before  our  eyes. 

They  were  making  out  to  me,  in  an  agitated  way — I  don't  know  how,  for  the  little 
I  could  hear  I  was  scarcely  composed  enough  to  understand — that  the  life- boat  had 
been  bravely  manned  an  hour  ago,  and  could  do  nothing  ;  and  that  as  no  man  would 
be  so  desperate  as  to  attempt  to  wade  off  with  a  rope,  and  establish  a  communication 
with  the  shore,  there  was  nothing  left  to  try  ;  when  I  noticed  that  some  new  sensation 
moved  the  people  on  the  beach,  and  saw  them  part,  and  Ham  come  breaking  through 
them  to  the  front. 

I  ran  to  him — as  well  as  I  know,  to  repeat  my  appeal  for  help.  But,  distracted 
though  I  was,  by  a  sight  so  new  to  me  and  terrible,  the  determination  in  his  face,  and 
his  look,  out  to  sea — exactly  the  same  look  as  I  remembered  in  connection  with  the 
morning  after  Emily's  flight — awoke  me  to  a  knowledge  of  his  danger.  I  held  him 
back  with  both  arms  ;  and  implored  the  men  with  whom  I  had  been  speaking,  not 
to  listen  to  him,  not  to  do  murder,  not  to  let  him  stir  from  off  that  sand  ! 

Another  cry  arose  on  shore  ;  and  looking  to  the  wreck,  we  saw  the  cruel  sail, 
with  blow  on  blow,  beat  off  the  lower  of  the  two  men,  and  fly  up  in  triumph  round  the 
active  figure  left  alone  upon  the  mast. 


518  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Against  such  a  sight,  and  against  such  determination  as  that  of  the  calmly 
desperate  man  who  was  already  accustomed  to  lead  half  the  people  present,  I  might 
as  hopefully  have  entreated  the  wind.  '  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  said,  cheerily  grasping  me 
by  both  hands,  '  if  my  time  is  come,  'tis  come.  If  'tan't,  I  'II  bide  it.  Lord  above 
bless  you,  and  bless  all  !     Mates,  make  me  ready  !     I  'm  a  going  off !  ' 

I  was  swept  away,  but  not  unkindly,  to  some  distance,  where  the  people  around 
me  made  me  stay  ;  urging,  as  I  confusedly  perceived,  that  he  was  bent  on  going, 
with  help  or  without,  and  that  I  should  endanger  the  precautions  for  his  safety  by 
troubling  those  with  whom  they  rested.  I  don't  know  what  I  answered,  or  what 
they  rejoined  ;  but,  I  saw  hurry  on  the  beach,  and  men  running  with  ropes  from  a 
capstan  that  was  there,  and  penetrating  into  a  circle  of  figures  that  hid  him  from  me. 
Then,  I  saw  him  standing  alone,  in  a  seaman's  frock  and  trowsers  :  a  rope  in  his  hand, 
or  slung  to  his  wrist :  another  round  his  body  :  and  several  of  the  best  men  holding, 
at  a  little  distance,  to  the  latter,  which  he  laid  out  himself,  slack  upon  the  shore,  at 
his  feet. 

The  wreck,  even  to  my  unpractised  eye,  was  breaking  up.  I  saw  that  she  was 
parting  in  the  middle,  and  that  the  life  of  the  solitary  man  upon  the  mast  hung  by  a 
thread.  Still,  he  clung  to  it.  He  had  a  singular  red  cap  on, — not  like  a  sailors  cap, 
but  of  a  finer  colour  ;  and  as  the  few  yielding  planks  between  him  and  destruction 
rolled  and  bulged,  and  his  anticipative  death-knell  rung,  he  was  seen  by  all  of  us  to 
wave  it.  I  saw  him  do  it  now,  and  thought  I  was  going  distracted,  when  his  action 
brought  an  old  remembrance  to  my  mind  of  a  once  dear  friend. 

Ham  watched  the  sea,  standing  alone,  with  the  silence  of  suspended  breath  behind 
him,  and  the  storm  before,  until  there  was  a  great  retiring  wave,  when,  with  a  back- 
ward glance  at  those  who  held  the  rope  which  was  made  fast  round  his  body,  he 
dashed  in  after  it,  and  in  a  moment  was  buffeting  with  the  water  :  rising  with  the 
hills,  falling  with  the  valleys,  lost  beneath  the  foam  ;  then  drawn  again  to  land.  They 
hauled  in  hastily. 

He  was  hurt.  I  saw  blood  on  his  face,  from  where  I  stood  ;  but  he  took  no 
thought  of  that.  He  seemed  hurriedly  to  give  them  some  directions  for  leaving 
him  more  free — or  so  I  judged  from  the  motion  of  his  arm — and  was  gone  as 
before. 

And  now  he  made  for  the  wreck,  rising  Avith  the  hills,  falling  with  the  valleys, 
lost  beneath  the  rugged  foam,  borne  in  towards  the  shore,  borne  on  towards  the  ship, 
striving  hard  and  valiantly.  The  distance  was  nothing,  but  the  power  of  the  sea  and 
wind  made  the  strife  deadly.  At  length  he  neared  the  wreck.  He  was  so  near,  that 
with  one  more  of  his  vigorous  strokes  he  would  be  clinging  to  it, — when,  a  high,  green, 
vast  hill-side  of  water,  moving  on  shoreward,  from  beyond  the  ship,  he  seemed  to  leap 
up  into  it  with  a  mighty  bound,  and  the  ship  was  gone  ! 

Some  eddying  fragments  I  saw  in  the  sea,  as  if  a  mere  cask  had  been  broken,  in 
running  to  the  spot  where  they  were  hauling  in.  Consternation  was  in  every  face. 
They  drew  him  to  my  very  feet — insensible — dead.  He  was  carried  to  the  nearest 
house  ;  and,  no  one  preventing  me  now,  I  remained  near  him,  busy,  while  every  means 
of  restoration  were  tried  ;  but  he  had  been  beaten  to  death  by  the  great  wave,  and 
his  generous  heart  was  stilled  for  ever. 

As  I  sat  beside  the  bed,  when  hope  was  abandoned  and  all  was  done,  a  fisherman, 
who  had  known  me  when  Emily  and  I  were  children,  and  ever  since,  whispered  my 
name  at  the  door. 


THE  Ni:W  WOUND,  AND  TFIK  OlA)  .519 

'Sir,'  said  he,  with  U'livn  start irif^  t(j  iiis  wonther-licatcn  face,  which,  with  his 
trembling  lips,  was  ashy  pale,  '  will  you  come  over  yonder  ?  ' 

The  old  remembrance  that  had  been  recalled  to  me,  was  in  his  look.  I  asked 
him,  terror-stricken,  leaning  on  the  arm  he  held  oiiL  to  support  me — 

'  Has  a  body  come  ashore  '!  ' 

He  said,  '  Yes.' 

'  Do  I  know  it  ?  '    I  asked  then. 

He  answered  nothing. 

But,  he  led  me  to  the  shore.  And  on  that  part  of  it  where  she  and  I  had  looked 
for  shells,  two  children — on  that  part  of  it  where  some  lighter  fragments  of  the  old 
boat,  blown  down  last  night,  had  been  scattered  by  the  wind — among  the  ruins  of  the 
home  he  had  wronged — I  saw  him  lying  with  his  head  upon  his  arm,  as  I  had  often 
seen  him  lie  at  school. 


CHAPTER    LVI 

THE  NEW  WOUND,  AND  THE  OLD 

NO  need,  O  Steerforth,  to  have  said,  when  we  last  spoke  together,  in  that 
hour  which  I  so  little  deemed  to  be  our  parting-hour — no  need  to  have 
said,  '  Think  of  me  at  my  best  !  '  I  had  done  that  ever  ;  and  could  I 
change  now,  looking  on  this  sight  ? 

They  brought  a  hand-bier,  and  laid  him  on  it,  and  covered  him  with  a  flag,  and 
took  him  up  and  bore  him  on  towards  the  houses.  All  the  men  who  carried  him  had 
known  him,  and  gone  sailing  with  him,  and  seen  him  merry  and  })oId.  They  carried 
him  through  the  wild  roar,  a  hush  in  the  midst  of  all  the  tumult ;  and  took  him  to  the 
cottage  where  Death  was  already. 

But,  when  they  set  the  bier  down  on  the  threshold,  they  looked  at  one  another, 
and  at  me,  ami  whispered.  I  knew  why.  They  felt  as  if  it  were  not  right  to  lay  hira 
down  in  the  same  quiet  room. 

We  went  into  the  town,  and  took  our  burden  to  the  inn.  So  soon  as  I  could  at 
all  collect  my  thoughts,  I  sent  for  Joram,  and  begged  him  to  provide  me  a  conveyance 
in  which  it  could  be  got  to  London  in  the  night.  I  knew  that  the  care  of  it,  and  the 
hard  duty  of  preparing  his  mother  to  receive  it,  could  only  rest  with  me  ;  and  I  was 
anxious  to  discharge  that  duty  as  faithfully  as  I  could. 

I  chose  the  night  for  the  journey,  that  there  might  be  less  curiosity  when  I  left 
the  town.  But,  although  it  was  nearly  midnight  when  I  came  out  of  the  yard  in  a 
chaise,  followed  by  what  I  had  in  charge,  there  were  many  people  waiting.  At 
intervals,  along  the  town,  and  even  a  little  way  out  upon  the  road,  I  saw  more  ; 
but  at  length  only  the  bleak  night  and  the  open  country  were  around  me.  and  the 
ashes  of  my  youthful  friendship. 

Upon  a  mellow  autumn  day,  about  noon,  when  the  groimd  was  perfumed  by 
fallen  leaves,  and  many  more,  in  beautiful  tints  of  yello-\v,  red,  and  brown,  yet  hung 
upon  the  trees,  through  which  the  sun  was  shining,  I  arrived  at  Highgate.  I  walked 
the  last  mile,  thinking  as  I  went  along  of  what  I  had  to  do  ;  and  left  the  carriage  that 
had  followed  me  all  through  the  night,  awaiting  orders  to  advance. 


520  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

The  house,  when  I  came  up  to  it,  looked  just  the  same.  Not  a  blind  was  raised  ; 
no  sign  of  life  was  in  the  dull  paved  court,  with  its  covered  way  leading  to  the  disused 
door.     The  wind  had  quite  gone  down,  and  nothing  moved. 

I  had  not,  at  first,  the  courage  to  ring  at  the  gate  ;  and  when  I  did  ring,  my 
errand  seemed  to  me  to  be  expressed  in  the  very  sound  of  the  bell.  The  little  parlour- 
maid came  out,  with  the  key  in  her  hand  ;  and  looking  earnestly  at  me  as  she  unlocked 
the  gate,  said — 

'  I  beg  your  pai'don,  sir.     Are  you  ill  ?  ' 

'  I  have  been  much  agitated,  and  am  fatigued.' 

'  Is  anything  the  matter,  sir  ? — Mr.  James ?  ' 

'  Hush  !  '  said  I.  '  Yes,  something  has  happened,  that  I  have  to  break  to  Mrs. 
Steerforth.     She  is  at  home  ?  ' 

The  girl  anxiously  replied  that  her  mistress  was  verj-  seldom  out  now,  even  in  a 
cari'iage  ;  that  she  kept  her  room  ;  that  she  saw  no  company,  but  would  see  me. 
Her  mistress  was  up,  she  said,  and  Miss  Dartle  was  with  her.  What  message  should 
she  take  upstairs  ? 

Giving  her  a  strict  charge  to  be  careful  of  her  manner,  and  only  to  carry  in  my 
card  and  say  I  waited,  I  sat  down  in  the  drawing-i-oom  (which  we  had  now  reached) 
until  she  should  come  back.  Its  former  pleasant  air  of  occupation  was  gone,  and 
the  shutters  were  half  closed.  The  harp  had  not  been  used  for  many  and  many  a  day. 
His  picture,  as  a  boy,  was  there.  The  cabinet  in  which  his  mother  had  kept  his  letters 
was  there.     I  wondered  if  she  ever  read  them  now  ;    if  she  would  ever  read  them  more  ! 

The  house  was  so  still  that  I  heard  the  girl's  light  step  upstairs.  On  her  return, 
she  brought  a  message,  to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Steerforth  was  an  invalid  and  could  not 
come  down ;  but,  that  if  I  would  excuse  her  being  in  her  chamber,  she  would  be  glad 
to  see  me.     In  a  few  moments  I  stood  before  her. 

She  was  in  his  room  ;  not  in  her  own.  I  felt,  of  course,  that  she  had  taken  to 
occupy  it,  in  remembrance  of  him  ;  and  that  the  many  tokens  of  his  old  sports  and 
accomplishments,  by  which  she  was  surrounded,  remained  there,  just  as  he  had  left 
them,  for  the  same  reason.  She  murmured,  however,  even  in  her  reception  of  me, 
that  she  was  out  of  her  own  chamber  because  its  aspect  was  unsuited  to  her  infirmity  ; 
and  with  her  stately  look  repelled  the  least  suspicion  of  the  truth. 

At  her  chair,  as  usual,  was  Rosa  Dartle.  From  the  first  moment  of  her  dark 
eyes  resting  on  me,  I  saw  she  knew  I  was  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings.  The  scar  sprung 
into  view  that  instant.  She  withdrew  herself  a  step  behind  the  chair,  to  keep  her  own 
face  out  of  Mrs.  Steerforth's  observation  ;  and  scrutinised  me  with  a  piercing  gaze 
that  never  faltered,  never  shrunk.' 

'  I  am  sorry  to  observe  you  are  in  mourning,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Steerforth. 

'  I  am  unhappily  a  widower,'  said  I. 

'  You  are  very  young  to  know  so  great  a  loss,'  she  returned.  '  I  am  grieved  to 
hear  it.     I  am  grieved  to  hear  it.     I  hope  Time  will  be  good  to  you.' 

'  I  hope  Time,'  said  I,  looking  at  her,  '  will  be  good  to  all  of  us.  Dear  Mrs. 
Steerforth,  we  must  all  trust  to  that,  in  our  heaviest  misfortunes.' 

The  earnestness  of  my  manner,  and  the  tears  in  my  eyes,  alarmed  her.  The 
whole  course  of  her  thoughts  appeared  to  stop,  and  change. 

I  tried  to  command  my  voice  in  gently  saying  his  name,  but  it  trembled.  She 
repeated  it  to  herself,  two  or  three  times,  in  a  low  tone.  Then,  addressing  me,  she  said, 
with  enforced  calmness — 


THE  NEW  WOUND,  AND  THE  OLD  521 

'  My  son  is  ill.' 

'  Very  ill.' 

'  You  have  seen  him  ?  ' 

'  I  have.' 

'  Are  you  reconciled  ?  ' 

I  could  not  say  Yes,  I  could  not  say  No.  She  slightly  turned  her  head  towards 
the  spot  where  Rosa  Dartle  had  been  standing  at  her  elbow,  and  in  that  moment  I 
said,  by  the  motion  of  my  lips,  to  Rosa,  '  Dead  !  ' 

That  Mrs.  Steerforth  might  not  be  induced  to  look  behind  her,  and  read,  plainly 
written,  what  she  was  not  yet  prepared  to  know,  I  met  her  look  quickly  ;  but  I 
had  seen  Rosa  Dartle  throw  her  hands  up  in  the  air  with  vehemence  of  despair  and 
horror,  and  then  clasp  them  on  her  face. 

The  handsome  lady — so  like.  Oh  so  like  ! — regarded  me  with  a  fixed  look,  and  put 
her  hand  to  her  forehead.  I  besought  her  to  be  calm,  and  prepare  herself  to  bear  what 
I  had  to  tell ;  but  I  should  rather  have  entreated  her  to  weep,  for  she  sat  like  a  stone 
figure. 

'  When  T  was  last  here,'  I  faltered,  '  Miss  Dartle  told  me  he  was  sailing  here  and 
there.  The  night  before  last  was  a  dreadful  one  at  sea.  If  he  were  at  sea  that  night, 
and  near  a  dangerous  coast,  as  it  is  said  he  was  ;  and  if  the  vessel  that  was  seen  should 
really  be  the  ship  which ' 

'  Rosa  !  '   said  Mrs.  Steerforth,  '  come  to  me  !  ' 

She  came,  but  with  no  sympathy  or  gentleness.  Her  eyes  gleamed  like  fire  as 
she  confronted  his  mother,  and  broke  into  a  frightful  laugh. 

'  Now.'  she  said,  '  is  your  pride  appeased,  you  mad  woman  ?  Now  has  he  made 
atonement  to  you with  his  life  ?     Do  you  hear  ? — His  life  !  ' 

Mrs.  Steerforth,  fallen  back  stiffly  in  her  chair,  and  making  no  sound  but  a  moan, 
cast  her  eyes  upon  her  with  a  wide  stare. 

'  Aye  !  '  cried  Rosa,  smiting  herself  passionately  on  the  breast,  '  look  at  me  ! 
Moan,  and  groan,  and  look  at  me  !  Look  here  !  '  striking  the  scar,  '  at  your  dead 
child's  handiwork  !  ' 

The  moan  the  mother  uttered,  from  time  to  time,  went  to  my  heart.  Always 
the  same.  Always  inarticulate  and  stifled.  Always  accompanied  with  an  in- 
capable motion  of  the  head,  but  with  no  change  of  face.  Always  proceeding  from 
a  rigid  mouth  and  closed  teeth,  as  if  the  jaw  were  locked  and  the  face  frozen 
up  in  pain. 

'  Do  you  remember  when  he  did  this  ?  '  she  proceeded.  '  Do  you  remember 
when,  in  his  inheritance  of  your  nature,  and  in  your  pampering  of  his  pride  and 
passion,  he  did  this,  and  disfigured  me  for  life  ?  Look  at  me,  marked  until  I  die  with 
his  high  displeasure  ;   and  moan  and  groan  for  what  you  made  him  !  ' 

'  Miss  Dartle,'  I  entreated  her.     '  For  Heaven's  sake ' 

'  I  rvill  speak  !  '  she  said,  turning  on  me  with  her  lightning  eyes.  '  Be  silent, 
you  !  Look  at  me,  I  say,  proud  mother  of  a  proud  false  son  !  Moan  for  your  nurture 
of  him,  moan  for  your  corruption  of  him,  moan  for  your  loss  of  him,  moan  for  mine  !  ' 

She  clenched  her  hand,  and  trembled  through  her  spare  worn  figure,  as  if  her 
passion  were  killing  her  by  inches. 

'  You,  resent  his  self-will  !  '  she  exclaimed.  '  You,  injured  by  his  haughty 
temper  !  You,  who  opposed  to  both,  when  your  hair  was  grey,  the  qualities  which 
made  both  when  you  gave  him  birth  !     You,  who  from  his  cradle  reared  him  to  be 

k2 


522  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

what  he  was,  and  stunted  what  he  should  have  been  !  Are  you  rewarded,  now,  for 
your  years  of  trouble  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  Miss  Dartle,  shame  !     Oh  cruel !  ' 

'  I  tell  you,'  she  returned,  '  I  will  speak  to  her.  No  power  on  earth  should  stop 
me,  while  I  was  standing  here  !  Have  I  been  silent  all  these  years,  and  shall  I  not 
speak  now  ?  I  loved  him  better  than  you  ever  loved  him  !  '  turning  on  her  fiercely. 
'  I  could  have  loved  him,  and  asked  no  return.  If  I  had  been  his  wife,  I  could  have 
been  the  slave  of  his  caprices  for  a  word  of  love  a  year.  I  should  have  been.  Who 
knows  it  better  than  I  ?  You  were  exacting,  proud,  punctilious,  selfish.  My  love 
would  have  been  devoted — would  have  trod  your  paltry  whimpering  underfoot ! ' 

With  flashing  eyes,  she  stamped  upon  the  ground  as  if  she  actually  did  it. 

'  Look  here  1  '  she  said,  striking  the  scar  again,  with  a  relentless  hand.  '  When 
he  grew  into  the  better  understanding  of  what  he  had  done,  he  saw  it,  and  repented 
of  it  !  I  could  sing  to  him,  and  talk  to  him,  and  show  the  ardour  that  I  felt  in  all 
he  did,  and  attain  with  labour  to  such  knowledge  as  most  interested  him  ;  and  I 
attracted  him.  When  he  was  freshest  and  truest,  he  loved  me.  Yes,  he  did  !  Many 
a  time,  when  you  were  put  off  with  a  slight  word,  he  has  taken  Me  to  his  heart !  ' 

She  said  it  with  a  taunting  pride  in  the  midst  of  her  frenzy — for  it  was  little 
less — yet  with  an  eager  remembrance  of  it,  in  which  the  smouldering  embers  of  a 
gentler  feeling  kindled  for  the  moment. 

'  I  descended — as  I  might  have  known  I  should,  but  that  he  fascinated  me  with 
his  boyish  courtship — into  a  doll,  a  trifle  for  the  occupation  of  an  idle  hour,  to  be 
dropped,  and  taken  up,  and  trifled  with,  as  the  inconstant  humour  took  him.  When 
he  grew  weary,  I  grew  weary.  As  his  fancy  died  out,  I  would  no  more  have  tried  to 
strengthen  any  power  I  had,  than  I  would  have  married  him  on  his  being  forced  to 
take  me  for  his  wife.  We  fell  away  from  one  another  without  a  word.  Perhaps  you 
saw  it,  and  were  not  sorry.  Since  then,  I  have  been  a  mere  disfigured  piece  of  furniture 
between  you  both  ;  having  no  eyes,  no  ears,  no  feelings,  no  remembrances.  Moan  ? 
IMoan  for  what  you  made  him  ;  not  for  your  love.  I  tell  you  that  the  time  was,  when 
I  loved  him  better  than  you  ever  did  !  ' 

She  stood  with  her  bright  angry  eyes  confronting  the  wide  stare,  and  the  set  face  ; 
and  softened  no  more,  when  the  moaning  was  repeated,  than  if  the  face  had  been  a 
picture. 

'  Miss  Dartle,'  said  I,  '  if  you  can  be  so  obdurate  as  not  to  feel  for  this  afflicted 
mother ' 

'  Who  feels  for  me  ?  '  she  sharply  retorted.  '  She  has  sown  this.  Let  her  moan 
for  the  harvest  that  she  reaps  to-day  !  ' 

'  And  if  his  faults -'  I  began. 

'  Faults  ! '  she  cried,  bursting  into  passionate  tears.  '  ^^^lO  dares  malign  him  ? 
He  had  a  soul  worth  millions  of  the  friends  to  whom  he  stooped  !  ' 

'  No  one  can  have  loved  him  better,  no  one  can  hold  him  in  dearer  remembrance 
than  I,'  I  replied.  '  I  meant  to  say,  if  you  have  no  compassion  for  his  mother ;  or 
if  his  faults — you  have  been  bitter  on  them ' 

'  It 's  false,*  she  cried,  tearing  her  black  hair  ;   '  I  loved  him  !  ' 

'  — if  his  faults  cannot,'  I  went  on,  '  be  banished  from  your  remembrance,  in  such 
an  hour ;  look  at  that  figure,  even  as  one  you  have  never  seen  before,  and  render  it 
some  help  !  ' 

All  this  time,  the  figure  was  unchanged,  and  looked  vmchangeable.     Motionless, 


I'm:  i:mi(; HANTS  52.'j 

T\ii'id,  starinfT ;  moaning  in  llie  suiik;  dunil)  wuy  from  lime  to  lime,  with  the  same 
lieipiess  molion  of  the  head  ;  hut  f^iviiiK  no  oilier  sij^ii  of  life.  Miss  Dartle  suddenly 
kneeled  down  before  it,  and  began  to  loosen  the  dress. 

'  A  curse  upon  you  !  '  she  said,  looking  round  at  me,  with  a  miiif,'lcd  expression 
of  rage  and  grief.  '  It  was  in  an  evil  Ikjut  Ihal  you  ever  came  here  !  A  curse  upon 
you!     Go!' 

After  passing  out  of  the  room,  I  hurried  hack  to  ring  the  bell,  the  sooner  to  alarm 
the  servants.  She  had  then  taken  the  impassive  figure  in  her  arms,  and,  still  upon 
her  knees,  was  weeping  over  it,  kissing  it,  calling  to  it,  rocking  it  to  and  fro  upon  her 
bosom  like  a  child,  and  trying  every  lender  means  to  rouse  the  dormant  senses.  No 
longer  afraid  of  leaving  her,  I  noiselessly  turned  hack  again  ;  and  alarmed  the  house 
as  I  went  out. 

Later  in  the  day,  I  returned,  and  we  laid  him  in  his  mother's  room.  She  was 
just  the  same,  they  told  me  ;  Miss  Dartle  never  left  her  ;  doctors  were  in  attendance, 
many  things  had  been  tried  ;  hut  she  lay  like  a  statue,  except  for  the  low  sound  now 
and  then. 

I  went  through  the  dreary  house,  and  darkened  the  windows.  The  windows 
of  the  chamber  where  he  lay,  1  darkened  last.  I  lifted  up  the  leaden  hand,  and  held 
it  to  my  heart ;  all  the  world  seemed  death  and  silence,  broken  only  by  his  mother's 
moaning. 


CHAPTER    LVII 

THE    EMTGRANT.S 

ONE  thing  more,  I  had  to  do,  before  yielding  myself  to  the  shock  of  these 
emotions.  It  was,  to  conceal  what  had  occurred,  from  those  who  were 
going  away  ;  and  to  dismiss  them  on  their  voyage  in  happy  ignorance. 
In  this,  no  time  was  to  be  lost. 

I  took  Mr.  Micawber  aside  that  same  night,  and  confided  to  him  the  task  of 
standing  between  Mr.  Peggotty  and  intelligence  of  the  late  catastrophe.  He  zealously 
undertook  to  do  so,  and  to  intercept  any  newspaper  through  which  it  might,  without 
such  precautions,  reach  him. 

'  If  it  penetrates  to  him,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  striking  himself  on  the  breast, 
'  it  shall  first  pass  through  this  body  !  ' 

Mr.  Micawber,  I  must  observe,  in  his  adaptation  of  himself  to  a  new  state  of 
society,  had  acquired  a  hold  buccaneering  air,  not  absolutely  lawless,  hut  defensive 
and  prompt.  One  might  have  supposed  him  a  child  of  the  wilderness,  long  accustomed 
to  live  out  of  the  confines  of  civilisation,  and  about  to  return  to  his  native  wilds. 

He  had  provided  himself,  among  other  things,  with  a  complete  suit  of  oil-skin, 
and  a  straw-hat  with  a  very  low  crown,  pitched  or  caulked  on  the  outside.  In  this 
rough  clothing,  with  a  common  mariner's  telescope  under  his  arm,  and  a  shrewd  trick 
of  easting  up  his  eye  at  the  sky  as  looking  out  for  dirty  weather,  he  was  far  more 
nautical,  after  his  manner,  than  Mr.  Peggotty.  His  whole  family,  if  I  may  so  express 
it,  were  cleared  for  action.     I  found  Mrs.  Jlicawber  in  the  closest  and  most  uncom- 


524  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

promising  of  bonnets,  made  fast  under  the  chin  ;  and  in  a  shawl  which  tied  her  up 
(as  I  had  been  tied  up,  when  my  aunt  first  received  me)  like  a  bundle,  and  was  secured 
behind  at  the  waist,  in  a  strong  knot.  Miss  Micawber  I  found  made  snug  for  stormy- 
weather,  in  the  same  manner  ;  with  nothing  superfluous  about  her.  Master  Micawber 
was  hardly  visible  in  a  Guernsey  shirt,  and  the  shaggiest  suit  of  slops  I  ever  saw  ;  and 
the  children  were  done  up,  like  preserved  meats,  in  impervious  cases.  Both  Mr. 
Micawber  and  his  eldest  son  wore  their  sleeves  loosely  turned  back  at  the  wrists,  as 
being  ready  to  lend  a  hand  in  any  direction,  and  to  '  tumble  up,'  or  sing  out,  '  Yeo— 
Heave — Yeo  !  '    on  the  shortest  notice. 

Thus  Traddles  and  I  found  them  at  nightfall,  assembled  on  the  wooden  steps, 
at  that  time  known  as  Hungerford  Stairs,  watching  the  departure  of  a  boat  with  some 
of  their  property  on  board.  I  had  told  Traddles  of  the  terrible  event,  and  it  had 
greatly  shocked  him  ;  but  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  kindness  of  keeping  it  a 
secret,  and  he  had  come  to  help  me  in  this  last  service.  It  was  here  that  I  took  Mr. 
Micawber  aside,  and  received  his  promise. 

The  Micawber  family  were  lodged  in  a  little,  dirty,  tumble-down  public-house, 
which  in  those  days  was  close  to  the  stairs,  and  whose  protruding  wooden  rooms  over- 
hung the  river.  The  family,  as  emigrants,  being  objects  of  some  interest  in  and  about 
Hungerford,  attracted  so  many  beholders,  that  we  were  glad  to  take  refuge  in  their 
room.  It  was  one  of  the  wooden  chambers  upstairs,  with  the  tide  flowing  under- 
neath. My  aunt  and  Agnes  were  there,  busily  making  some  little  extra  comforts,  in 
the  way  of  dress,  for  the  children.  Peggotty  was  quietly  assisting,  with  the  old 
insensible  work-box,  yard-measure,  and  bit  of  wax-candle  before  her,  that  had  now 
outlived  so  much. 

It  was  not  easy  to  answer  her  inquiries  ;  still  less  to  whisper  Mr.  Peggotty,  when 
Mr.  Micawber  brought  him  in,  that  I  had  given  the  letter,  and  all  was  well.  But  I 
did  both,  and  made  them  happy.  If  I  showed  any  trace  of  what  I  felt,  my  own  sorrows 
were  sufficient  to  account  for  it. 

'  And  when  does  the  ship  sail,  Mr.  Micawber  ?  '   asked  my  aunt. 

Mr.  Micawber  considered  it  necessary  to  prepare  either  my  aunt  or  his  wife,  by 
degrees,  and  said,  sooner  than  he  had  expected  yesterday. 

'  The  boat  brought  you  word,  I  suppose  ?  '    said  my  aunt. 

'  It  did,  ma'am,'  he  returned. 

'  Well  ?  '    said  my  aunt.     '  And  she  sails ' 

'  Madam,'  he  replied,  '  I  am  informed  that  we  must  positively  be  on  board  before 
seven  to-morrow  morning.' 

'  Heyday  ! '  said  my  aunt,  '  that 's  soon.     Is  it  a  sea-going  fact,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  ' 

'  'Tis  so,  ma'am.  She  '11  drop  down  the  river  with  that  theer  tide.  If  Mas'r 
Davy  and  my  sister  comes  aboard  at  Gravesen',  arternoon  o'  next  day,  they  '11  see  the 
last  on  us.' 

'  And  that  we  shall  do,'  said  I,  '  be  sure  !  ' 

'  Until  then,  and  until  we  are  at  sea,'  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  glance  of 
intelligence  at  me,  '  Mr.  Peggotty  and  myself  will  constantly  keep  a  double  look-out 
together,  on  our  goods  and  chattels.  Emma,  my  love,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  clearing 
his  throat  in  his  magnificent-way,  '  my  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  is  so  obliging  as 
to  solicit,  in  my  ear,  that  he  should  have  the  privilege  of  ordering  the  ingredients 
necessary  to  the  composition  of  a  moderate  portion  of  that  Beverage  which  is 
peculiarly  associated,  in  our  minds,  with  the  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England.     I  allude 


THE  EMIGRANTS  525 

to — in  short,  Punch.     Uiuhtr  onliniiry  circuinsl.inc.cs,  I  should  scruple  to  entreat  the 
indulgence  of  Miss  Trotwood  und  Miss  VVicklicId,  l)ut ' 

'  I  can  only  say  for  myself,'  said  my  aunt,  '  tlml  I  will  drink  all  happiness  and 
success  to  you,  Mr.  Mi(;iiwl)er,  with  the  utmost  pleasure' 

'  And  I  too  !  '    said  Agnes,  with  a  smile. 

Mr.  Micawber  immediately  descended  to  the  bar,  where  he  appeared  to  be  quite 
at  home  ;  and  in  due  time  returned  with  a  steaming  jug.  I  could  not  but  observe 
that  he  had  been  peeling  the  lemons  with  his  own  clasp-knife,  which,  as  became  the 
knife  of  a  practical  settler,  was  about  a  foot  long  ;  and  which  he  wiped,  not  wholly 
without  ostentation,  on  the  sleeve  of  his  coat.  Mrs.  Micawljcr  and  the  two  elder 
members  of  the  family  I  now  found  to  be  provided  with  similar  formidable  instru- 
ments, while  every  child  had  its  own  wooden  spoon  attached  to  its  body  by  a  strong 
line.  In  a  similar  anticipation  of  life  afloat,  and  in  the  Bush,  Mr.  Micawber,  instead  of 
helping  Mrs.  Mieawl)er  and  his  eldest  son  and  daughter  to  punch,  in  wine-glasses, 
which  he  might  easily  have  done,  for  there  was  a  shelf-full  in  the  room,  served  it  out 
to  them  in  a  series  of  villainous  little  tin  pots  ;  and  I  never  saw  him  enjoy  anything  so 
much  as  drinking  out  of  his  own  particular  pint  pot,  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket  at  the 
close  of  the  evening. 

'  The  luxuries  of  the  old  country,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  an  intense  satisfaction 
in  their  renouncement,  '  we  abandon.  The  denizens  of  the  forest  cannot,  of  course, 
expect  to  participate  in  the  refinements  of  the  land  of  the  Free.' 

Here,  a  boy  came  in  to  say  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  wanted  downstairs. 

'  I  have  a  presentiment,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  setting  down  her  tin  pot,  '  that  it 
is  a  member  of  my  family  1  ' 

'  If  so,  my  dear,'  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  with  his  usual  suddenness  of  warmth 
on  that  subject,  '  as  the  member  of  your  family — whoever  he,  she,  or  it,  may  be — has 
kept  us  waiting  for  a  considerable  period,  perhaps  the  Member  may  now  wait  my 
convenience.' 

'  Micawber,'  said  his  wife,  in  a  low  tone,  '  at  such  a  time  as  this ' 

'  "  It  is  not  meet,"  '  said  Mr.  Micawbef,  rising,  '  "  that  every  nice  offence  should 
bear  its  comment  !  "     Emma,  I  stand  reproved.' 

'  The  loss,  Micawber,'  observed  his  wife,  '  has  been  my  family's,  not  yours.  If 
my  family  are  at  length  sensible  of  the  deprivation  to  which  their  own  conduct  has, 
in  the  past,  exposed  them,  and  now  desire  to  extend  the  hand  of  fellowship,  let  it  not 
be  repulsed.' 

'  My  dear,'  he  returned,  '  so  be  it  !  ' 

'  If  not  for  their  sakes  ;   for  mine,  Micawber,'  said  his  wife. 

'  Emma,'  he  returned,  '  that  view  of  the  question  is,  at  such  a  moment,  irresistible. 
I  cannot,  even  now,  distinctly  pledge  myself  to  fall  upon  your  family's  neck  ;  but 
the  member  of  your  family,  who  is  now  in  attendance,  shall  have  no  genial  warmth 
frozen  by  me.' 

Mr.  Micawber  withdrew,  and  was  absent  some  little  time  ;  in  the  course  of  which 
Mrs.  Micawber  was  not  wholly  free  from  an  apprehension  that  words  might  have 
arisen  between  him  and  the  Member.  At  length  the  same  boy  re-appeared,  and 
presented  me  with  a  note  written  in  pencil,  and  headed,  in  a  legal  manner,  '  Heep 
V.  Micawber.'  From  this  document,  I  learned  that  Mr.  Micawber  being  again  arrested, 
was  in  a  final  paroxysm  of  despair  ;  and  that  he  begged  me  to  send  him  his  knife  and 
pint  pot,  by  bearer,  as  they  might  prove  serviceable  during  the  brief  remainder  of  his 


526  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

existence  in  jail.  He  also  requested,  as  a  last  act  of  friendship,  that  I  would  see  his 
family  to  the  Parish  Workhouse,  and  forgeL  that  such  a  Being  ever  lived. 

Of  course  I  answered  this  note  by  going  down  with  the  boy  to  pay  the  money, 
where  I  found  Mr.  Micawber  sitting  in  a  corner,  looking  darkly  at  the  sheriff's  officer 
who  had  affected  the  capture.  On  his  release,  he  embraced  me  with  the  utmost 
fervour,  and  made  an  entry  of  the  transaction  in  his  pocket-book — being  very  par- 
ticular, I  recollect,  about  a  halfpenny  I  inadvertently  omitted  from  my  statement 
of  the  total. 

This  momentous  pocket-book  was  a  timely  reminder  to  him  of  another  transaction. 
On  our  return  to  the  room  upstairs  (where  he  accounted  for  his  absence  by  saying 
that  it  had  been  occasioned  by  circumstances  over  which  he  had  no  control),  he  took 
out  of  it  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  folded  small,  and  quite  covered  with  long  sums, 
carefully  worked.  From  the  glimpse  I  had  of  them,  I  should  say  that  I  never  saw 
such  sums  out  of  a  school  ciphering-book.  These,  it  seemed,  were  calculations  of 
compound  interest  on  what  he  called  '  the  principal  amount  of  forty-one,  ten,  eleven 
and  a  half,'  for  various  periods.  After  a  careful  consideration  of  these,  and  an 
elaborate  estimate  of  his  resources,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  to  select 
that  sum  which  represented  the  amount  with  compound  interest  to  two  years, 
fifteen  calendar  months,  and  fourteen  days,  from  that  date.  For  this  he  had 
drawn  a  note-of-hand  with  great  neatness,  which  he  handed  over  to  Traddles  on 
the  spot,  a  discharge  of  his  debt  in  full  (as  between  man  and  man),  with  many 
acknowledgments. 

'  I  have  still  a  presentiment,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  pensively  shaking  her  head, 
'  that  my  family  will  appear  on  board,  before  we  finally  depart.' 

Mr.  Micawber  evidently  had  his  presentiment  on  the  subject  too,  but  he  put  it 
in  his  tin  pot  and  swallowed  it. 

'  If  you  have  any  opportunity  of  sending  letters  home,  on  your  passage,  Mrs. 
Micawber,'  said  my  aunt,  '  you  must  let  us  hear  from  you,  you  know.' 

'  My  dear  Miss  Trotwood,'  she  replied,  '  I  shall  only  be  too  happy  to  think  that 
any  one  expects  to  hear  from  us.  I  shall  not  fail  to  correspond.  Mr.  Copperfield, 
I  trust,  as  an  old  and  familiar  friend,  will  not  object  to  receive  occasional  intelligence, 
himself,  from  one  who  knew  him  when  the  twins  were  yet  unconscious  ?  ' 

I  said  that  I  should  hope  to  hear,  whenever  she  had  an  opportunity  of  writing. 

'  Please  Heaven,  there  will  be  many  such  opportunities,'  said  Mr.  Micawber. 
'  The  ocean,  in  these  times,  is  a  perfect  fleet  of  ships  ;  and  we  can  hardly  fail  to 
encounter  many,  in  running  over.  It  is  merely  crossing,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  trifling 
with  his  eye-glass,  '  merely  crossing.     The  distance  is  quite  imaginary.' 

I  think,  now,  how  odd  it  was,  but  how  wonderfully  like  Mr.  Micawber,  that,  when 
he  went  from  London  to  Canterbury,  he  should  have  talked  as  if  he  were  going  to  the 
farthest  limits  of  the  earth,  and,  when  he  went  from  England  to  Australia,  as  if  he 
were  going  for  a  little  trip  across  the  Channel. 

'  On  the  voyage,  I  shall  endeavour,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  occasionally  to  spin 
them  a  yarn  ;  and  the  melody  of  my  son  Wilkins  will,  I  trust,  be  acceptable  at  the 
galley-fire.  When  Mrs.  Micawber  has  her  sea-legs  on — an  expression  in  which  I  hope 
there  is  no  conventional  impropriety — she  will  give  them,  I  dare  say.  Little  TafHin. 
Porpoises  and  dolphins,  I  believe,  will  be  frequently  observed  athwart  our  bows,  and, 
either  on  the  starboard  or  the  larboard  quarter,  objects  of  interest  will  be  continually 
descried.     In  short,*  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  the  old  genteel  air,  '  the  probability  is. 


TlfK  EM r(; RANTS  527 

all  will  be  found  so  cxcitiiiff,  uiow  and  alofl,  lliuL  wiicn  llic  look-out,  stationed  in  tlic 
main-top,  cries  Land-oh  !    we  shall  be  very  considerably  astonished  !  ' 

With  that  he  flourished  off  the  contents  of  his  little  tin  pot,  as  if  he  had  made  tlie 
vogage,  and  had  passed  a  first-class  examination  before  the  highest  naval  authorities. 
'  What  /  chiefly  hope,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  is,  that 
in  some  branches  of  our  family  we  may  live  again  in  the  old  country.  Do  not  frown, 
Mieawbcr  !  I  do  not  now  refer  to  my  own  family,  but  to  our  children's  children. 
However  vigorous  the  sapling,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  shaking  her  head,  '  I  cannot  forget 
the  parent-tree;  and  when  our  race  attains  to  eminence  and  fortune,  I  own  I  should 
wish  that  fortime  to  flow  into  the  coffers  of  Britannia.' 

'  My  dear,'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  '  Ikitannia  nuist  take  her  chance.  I  am  bound  to 
say  that  she  has  never  done  much  for  me,  and  that  I  have  no  particular  wish  upon 
the  subject.' 

'  Micawber,'  returned  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  there  you  are  wrong.  You  are  going  out, 
Micawber,  to  this  distant  clime,  to  strengthen,  not  to  weaken,  the  connection  between 
yourself  and  Albion.' 

'  The  connection  in  question,  my  love,'  rejoined  Mr.  Micawber,  '  has  not  laid  me, 
I  repeat,  under  that  load  of  personal  obligation,  that  I  am  at  all  sensitive  as  to  the 
formation  of  another  connection.' 

'  Micawber,'  returned  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  there,  I  again  say,  you  are  wrong.  You 
do  not  know  your  power,  Micawber.  It  is  that  which  will  strengthen,  even  in  this 
step  you  are  about  to  take,  the  connection  between  yourself  and  Albion.' 

Mr.  Micawber  sat  in  his  elbow-chair,  with  his  eyebrows  raised  ;  half  receiving  and 
half  repudiating  Mrs.  Micawber's  views  as  they  were  stated,  but  very  sensible  of  their 
foresight. 

'  My  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber  to  feel  his 
position.  It  appears  to  me  highly  important  that  Mr.  Micawber  should,  from  the 
hour  of  his  embarkation,  feel  his  position.  Your  old  knowledge  of  me,  my  dear  Mr. 
Copperfield,  will  have  told  you  that  I  have  not  the  sanguine  disposition  of  Mr.  Micawber. 
My  disposition  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  eminently  practical.  I  know  that  this  is  a  long 
voyage.  I  know  that  it  will  involve  many  privations  and  inconveniences.  I  cannot 
shut  my  eyes  to  those  facts.  But,  I  also  know  what  Mr.  Micawber  is.  I  know  the 
latent  power  of  Mr.  Micawber.  And  therefore  I  consider  it  vitally  important  that 
Mr.  Micawber  should  feel  his  position.' 

'  My  love,'  he  observed,  '  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  remark  that  it  is  barely 
possible  that  I  do  feel  my  position  at  the  present  moment.' 

'  I  think  not,  Micawber,'  she  rejoined.  '  Not  fully.  My  dear  Mr.  Copperfield, 
Mr.  Micawber's  is  not  a  common  case.  Mr.  Micawber  is  going  to  a  distant  country 
expressly  in  order  that  he  may  be  fully  understood  and  appreciated  for  the  first  time. 
I  wish  Mr.  Micawber  to  take  his  stand  upon  that  vessel's  prow,  and  firmly  say,  "  This 
country  I  am  come  to  conquer  !  Have  you  honours  ?  Have  you  riches  ?  Have 
you  posts  of  profitable  pecuniary  emolument  ?  Let  them  be  brought  forward.  They 
are  mine  !  "  ' 

Mr.  Micawber,  glancing  at  us  all,  seemed  to  think  there  was  a  good  deal  in  this 
idea. 

'  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber,  if  I  make  myself  understood,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  in  her 
argumentative  tone,  '  to  be  the  Caesar  of  his  own  fortunes.  That,  my  dear  Mr. 
Copperfield,  appears  to  me  to  be  his  true  position.     From  the  first  moment  of  this 


528  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

voyage,  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber  to  stand  upon  that  vessel's  prow  and  say,  "  Enough  of 
delay  :  enough  of  disappointment :  enough  of  limited  means.  That  was  in  the  old 
country.     This  is  the  new.     Produce  your  reparation.     Bring  it  forward  !  "  ' 

Mr.  Micawber  folded  his  arms  in  a  resolute  manner,  as  if  he  were  then  stationed 
on  the  figure-head. 

'And  doing  that,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  — feeling  his  position — am  I  not  right 
in  saying  that  Mr.  Micawber  will  strengthen,  and  not  weaken,  his  connection  with 
Britain  ?  An  important  public  character  arising  in  that  hemisphere,  shall  I  be  told 
that  its  influence  will  not  be  felt  at  home  ?  Can  I  be  so  weak  as  to  imagine  that  Mr. 
Micawber,  wielding  the  rod  of  talent  and  of  power  in  Australia,  will  be  nothing  in 
England  ?  I  am  but  a  woman  ;  but  I  should  be  unworthy  of  myself,  and  of  my 
papa,  if  I  were  guilty  of  such  absurd  weakness.' 

Mrs.  Micawber's  conviction  that  her  arguments  were  unanswerable,  gave  a  moral 
elevation  to  her  tone  which  I  think  I  had  never  heard  in  it  before. 

'  And  therefore  it  is,'  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  '  that  I  the  more  wish,  that,  at  a  future 
period,  we  may  live  again  on  the  parent  soil.  Mr.  Micawber  may  be — I  cannot  disguise 
from  myself  that  the  probability  is,  Mr.  Micawber  will  be — a  page  of  History  ;  and 
he  ought  then  to  be  represented  in  the  country  which  gave  him  birth,  and  did  not 
give  him  employment  !  ' 

'  My  love,'  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  '  it  is  impossible  for  me  not  to  be  touched  by 
your  affection.  I  am  always  willing  to  defer  to  your  good  sense.  What  will  be — will 
be.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  grudge  my  native  country  any  portion  of  the  wealth 
that  may  be  accumulated  by  our  descendants  !  ' 

'  That 's  well,'  said  miy  aunt,  nodding  towards  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  and  I  drink  my 
love  to  you  all,  and  every  blessing  and  success  attend  you  !  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty  put  down  the  two  children  he  had  been  nursing,  one  on  each  knee, 
to  join  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  in  drinking  to  all  of  us  in  return  ;  and  when  he  and  the 
Micawbers  cordially  shook  hands  as  comrades,  and  his  brown  face  brightened  with 
a  smile,  I  felt  that  he  would  make  his  way,  establish  a  good  name,  and  be  beloved,  go 
where  he  would. 

Even  the  children  were  instructed,  each  to  dip  a  wooden  spoon  into  Mr.  Micawber's 
pot,  and  pledge  us  in  its  contents.  When  this  was  done,  my  aunt  and  Agnes  rose, 
and  parted  from  the  emigrants.  It  was  a  sorrowful  farewell.  They  were  all  crying  ; 
the  children  hung  about  Agnes  to  the  last ;  and  we  left  poor  Mrs.  Micawber  in  a  very 
distressed  condition,  sobbing  and  weeping  by  a  dim  candle,  that  must  have  made 
the  room  look,  from  the  river,  like  a  miserable  lighthouse. 

I  went  down  again  next  morning  to  see  that  they  were  away.  They  had  departed, 
in  a  boat,  as  early  as  five  o'clock.  It  was  a  wonderful  instance  to  me  of  the  gap  such 
partings  make,  that  although  my  association  of  them  with  the  tumble-down  public- 
house  and  the  wooden  stairs  dated  only  from  last  night,  both  seemed  dreary  and 
deserted,  now  that  they  were  gone. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  my  old  nurse  and  I  went  down  to  Gravesend. 
We  found  the  ship  in  the  river,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  boats  ;  a  favourable  wind 
blowing  ;  the  signal  for  sailing  at  her  mast-head.  I  hired  a  boat  directly,  and  we  put 
off  to  her  ;  and  getting  through  the  little  vortex  of  confusion  of  which  she  was  the 
centre,  went  on  board. 

Mr.  Peggotty  was  waiting  for  us  on  deck.  He  told  me  that  Mr.  IMicawber  had 
just  now  been  arrested  again  (and  for  the  last  time)  at  the  suit  of  Heep,  and  that, 


THE  EMIGRANTS  r>'2u 

in  compliance  with  u  reciucst  I  had  made  to  him,  he  had  paid  the  money  :  which  1 
repaid  him.  lie  then  tooic  us  down  between  decks  ;  and  there,  any  lingering  fears  I 
had  of  his  having  heard  any  rumours  of  what  had  happened,  were  dispelled  by  Mr. 
Micawher's  coming  out  of  the  gloom,  taking  his  arm  with  an  air  of  friendship  and 
protection,  and  telling  me  that  they  had  scarcely  been  asunder  for  a  moment,  since 
the  night  before  last. 

It  was  such  a  strange  scene  to  mc,  and  so  confined  and  dark,  that,  at  first,  I  could 
make  out  hardly  anything  ;  but,  by  degrees,  it  cleared,  as  my  eyes  became  more 
accustomed  to  the  gloom,  and  I  seemed  to  stand  in  a  picture  by  Ostade.  Among  the 
great  beams,  bulks,  and  ringbolts  of  the  ship,  and  the  emigrant-l)erths,  and  chests, 
and  bundles,  and  barrels,  and  heaps  of  miscellaneous  baggage — lighted  ujj,  here  and 
there,  by  dangling  lanterns  ;  and  elsewhere  by  the  yellow  daylight  straying  down  a 
windsail  or  a  hatchway — were  crowded  groups  of  people,  making  new  friendships, 
taking  leave  of  one  another,  talking,  laughing,  crying,  eating  and  drinking  ;  some, 
already  settled  down  into  the  possession  of  their  few  feet  of  space,  with  their  little 
households  arranged,  and  tiny  children  established  on  stools,  or  in  dwarf  elbow-chairs  ; 
others,  despairing  of  a  resting-place,  and  wandering  disconsolately.  From  babies 
who  had  but  a  week  or  two  of  life  behind  them,  to  crooked  old  men  and  women  who 
seemed  to  have  but  a  week  or  two  of  life  before  them  ;  and  from  ploughmen  bodily 
carrying  out  soil  of  England  on  their  boots,  to  smiths  taking  away  samples  of  its  soot 
and  smoke  upon  their  skins  ;  every  age  and  occupation  appeared  to  be  crammed  into 
the  narrow  compass  of  the  'tween  decks. 

As  my  eye  glanced  round  this  place,  I  thought  I  saw  sitting,  by  an  open  port, 
with  one  of  the  Micawber  children  near  her,  a  figure  like  Emily's  ;  it  first  attracted  ray 
attention,  by  another  figure  parting  from  it  with  a  kiss  ;  and  as  it  glided  calmly  away 
through  the  disorder,  reminding  me  of — Agnes  !  But  in  the  rapid  motion  and  con- 
fusion, and  in  the  unsettlcment  of  my  own  thoughts,  I  lost  it  again  ;  and  only  knew 
that  the  time  was  come  when  all  visitors  were  being  warned  to  leave  the  ship  ;  that 
my  nurse  was  crying  on  a  chest  beside  mc  ;  and  that  Mrs.  Gummidge,  assisted  by  some 
younger  stooping  woman  in  black,  was  busily  arranging  Mr.  Peggotty's  goods. 

'  Is  there  any  last  wured,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  '  said  he.  '  Is  there  any  one  forgotten 
thing  afore  we  parts  ?  ' 

'  One  thing  !  '    said  I.     '  Martha  !  ' 

He  touched  the  younger  woman  I  have  mentioned  on  the  shoulder,  and  Martha 
stood  before  me. 

'  Heaven  bless  you,  you  good  man  !  '    cried  I.     '  You  take  her  with  you  ?  * 

She  answered  for  him,  with  a  burst  of  tears.  I  could  speak  no  more  at  that  time, 
but  I  wrung  his  hand  ;  and  if  ever  I  have  loved  and  honoured  any  man,  I  loved  and 
honoured  that  man  in  my  soul. 

The  ship  was  clearing  fast  of  strangers.  The  greatest  trial  that  I  had,  remained. 
I  told  him  what  the  noble  spirit  that  was  gone,  had  given  me  in  charge  to  say  at  parting. 
It  moved  him  deeply.  But  when  he  charged  me,  in  return,  with  many  messages  of 
affection  and  regret  for  those  deaf  ears,  he  moved  me  more. 

The  time  was  come.  I  embraced  him,  took  my  weeping  nurse  upon  my  arm, 
and  hurried  away.  On  deck,  I  took  leave  of  poor  Mrs.  Micawber.  She  was  looking 
distractedly  about  for  her  family,  even  then  ;  and  her  last  words  to  me  were,  that 
she  never  would  desert  Mr.  Micawber. 

We  went  over  the  side  into  our  boat,  and  lay  at  a  little  distance  to  see  the  ship 


530  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

wafted  on  her  course.  It  was  then  calm,  radiant  sunset.  She  lay  between  us  and  the 
red  light ;  and  every  taper  line  and  spar  war  visible  against  the  glow.  A  sight  at  once 
so  beautiful,  so  mournful,  and  so  hopeful,  as  the  glorious  ship,  lying,  still,  on  the  flushed 
water,  with  all  the  life  on  board  her  crowded  at  the  bulwarks,  and  there  clustering, 
for  a  moment,  bare-headed  and  silent,  I  never  saw. 

Silent,  only  for  a  moment.  As  the  sails  rose  to  the  wind,  and  the  ship  began  to 
move,  there  broke  from  all  the  boats  three  resounding  cheers,  which  those  on  board 
took  up,  and  echoed  back,  and  which  were  echoed  and  re-echoed.  My  heart  burst 
out  when  I  heard  the  sound,  and  beheld  the  waving  of  the  hats  and  handkerchiefs — 
and  then  I  saw  her  ! 

Then  I  saw  her,  at  her  uncle's  side,  and  trembling  on  his  shoulder.  He  pointed 
to  us  with  an  eager  hand  ;  and  she  saw  us,  and  waved  her  last  good-bye  to  me.  Aye, 
Emily,  beautiful  and  drooping,  cling  to  him  with  the  utmost  trust  of  thy  bruised 
heart ;  for  he  has  clung  to  thee,  with  all  the  might  of  his  great  love  ! 

Surrounded  by  the  rosy  light,  and  standing  high  upon  the  deck,  apart 
together,  she  clinging  to  him,  and  he  holding  her,  they  solemnly  passed  away. 
The  night  had  fallen  on  the  Kentish  hills  when  we  were  rowed  ashore — and  fallen 
darkly  upon  me. 


CHAPTER    LVIII 

ABSENCE 

IT  was  a  long  and  gloomy  night  that  gathered  on  me,  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of 
many  hopes,  of  many  dear  remembrances,  many  errors,  many  unavailing 
sorrows  and  regrets. 
I  went  away  from  England ;  not  knowing,  even  then,  how  great  the  shock 
was,  that  I  had  to  bear.  I  left  all  who  were  dear  to  me,  and  went  away  ;  and  believed 
that  I  had  borne  it,  and  it  was  past.  As  a  man  upon  a  field  of  battle  will  receive  a 
mortal  hurt,  and  scarcely  know  that  he  is  struck,  so  I,  when  I  was  left  alone  with 
my  undisciplined  heart,  had  no  conception  of  the  wound  with  which  it  had  to  strive. 

The  knowledge  came  upon  me,  not  quickly,  but  little  by  little,  and  grain  by  grain. 
The  desolate  feeling  with  which  I  went  abroad,  deepened  and  widened  hourly.  At 
first  it  was  a  heavy  sense  of  loss  and  sorrow,  wherein  I  could  distinguish  little  else. 
By  imperceptible  degrees,  it  became  a  hopeless  consciousness  of  all  that  I  had  lost — 
love,  friendship,  interest ;  of  all  that  had  been  shattered — my  first  trust,  my  first 
affection,  the  whole  airy  castle  of  my  life  ;  of  all  that  remained — a  ruined  blank 
and  waste,  lying  wide  around  me,  unbroken  to  the  dark  horizon. 

If  my  grief  were  selfish,  I  did  not  know  it  to  be  so.  I  mourned  for  my  child-wife, 
taken  from  her  blooming  world,  so  young.  I  mourned  for  him  who  might  have  won 
the  love  and  admiration  of  thousands,  as  he  had  won  mine  long  ago.  I  mourned  for 
the  broken  heart  that  had  found  rest  in  the  stormy  sea  ;  and  for  the  wandering 
remnants  of  the  simple  home,  where  I  had  heard  the  night-wind  blowing,  when  I  was 
a  child. 

From  the  accumulated  sadness  into  which  I  fell,  I  had  at  length  no  hope  of  ever 
issuing  again.     I  roamed  from  place  to  place,  carrying  my  burden  with  me  everywhere. 


ABSENCE  on 

I  felt  its  whole  wci{,'ht  now  ;    iuul  I  drooped  beneuLh  il,  .'ind  1  suid  in  my  licarL  lh:it 
it  could  never  he  lightened. 

When  this  dcsjjondcney  was  at  its  worst,  I  believed  that  I  should  die.  .Sometimes, 
I  thought  that  I  would  like  to  die  at  home  ;  and  actually  turned  baek  on  my  road, 
that  I  might  get  there  soon.  At  other  times,  I  passed  on  farther  away,  from  city  to 
city,  seeking  1  know  not  what,  and  trying  to  leave  I  know  not  what  behind. 

It  is  not  in  my  power  to  retrace,  one  \>y  one.  all  the  weary  phases  of  distress 
of  mind  tlirough  which  I  passed.  'I'here  are  some  dreams  that  (!an  ordy  be  imperfectly 
and  vaguely  described  ;  and  when  I  oblige  myself  to  look  back  on  this  time  of  my 
life,  I  seem  to  be  recalling  such  a  dream.  I  see  myself  passing  on  amr)ng  the  novelties 
of  foreign  towns,  palaces,  cathedrals,  temples,  pictures,  castles,  tombs,  fantastic 
streets — the  old  abiding  places  of  History  and  Fancy — as  a  dreamer  might  ;  bearing 
my  painful  load  through  all,  and  hardly  conscious  of  the  objects  as  they  fade  before 
me.  Listlessness  to  everything,  but  brooding  sorrow,  was  the  night  that  fell  on  my 
undisciplined  heart.  Let  me  look  up  from  it — as  at  last  I  did,  thank  Heaven  ! — 
and  from  its  long,  sad,  wretched  dream,  to  dawn. 

For  many  months  I  travelled  with  this  ever-darkening  cloud  upon  my  mind. 
Some  blind  reasons  that  I  had  for  not  returning  home — reasons  then  struggling  within 
me,  vainly,  for  more  distinct  expression — kept  me  on  my  pilgrimage.  Sometimes, 
I  had  proceeded  restlessly  from  place  to  place,  stopping  nowhere  ;  sometimes,  I  had 
lingered  long  in  one  spot.  I  had  had  no  purpose,  no  sustaining  soul  within  me, 
anjrwhere. 

I  was  in  Switzerland.  I  had  come  out  of  Italy,  over  one  of  the  great  passes  of 
the  Alps,  and  had  since  wandered  with  a  guide  among  the  by-ways  of  the  mountains. 
If  those  awful  solitudes  had  spoken  to  my  heart,  I  did  not  know  it.  I  had  found 
sublimity  and  wonder  in  the  dread  heights  and  precipices,  in  the  roaring  torrents,  and 
the  wastes  of  ice  and  snow  ;   but  as  yet,  they  had  taught  me  nothing  else. 

I  came,  one  evening  before  sunset,  down  into  a  valley,  where  I  was  to  rest.  In 
the  course  of  my  descent  to  it,  by  the  winding  track  along  the  mountain-side,  from 
which  I  saw  it  shining  far  below,  I  think  some  long-unwonted  sense  of  beauty  and 
tranquillity,  some  softening  influence  awakened  by  its  peace,  moved  faintly  in  my 
breast.  I  remember  pausing  once,  with  a  kind  of  sorrow  that  was  not  all  oppressive, 
not  quite  despairing.  I  remember  almost  hoping  that  some  better  change  was  possible 
within  me. 

I  came  into  the  valley,  as  the  evening  sun  was  shining  on  the  remote  heights  of 
snow,  that  closed  it  in,  like  eternal  clouds.  The  bases  of  the  mountains  forming  the 
gorge  in  which  the  little  village  lay,  were  richly  green  ;  and  high  above  this  gentler 
vegetation,  grew  forests  of  dark  fir,  cleaving  the  wintry  snow-drift,  wedge-like  and 
stemming  the  avalanche.  Above  these,  w-ere  range  upon  range  of  craggy  steeps, 
grey  rock,  bright  ice,  and  smooth  verdure-specks  of  pasture,  all  gradually  blending 
with  the  crowning  snow.  Dotted  here  and  there  on  the  mountain's  side,  each  tiny 
dot  a  home,  were  lonely  wooden  cottages,  so  dwarfed  by  the  towering  heights  that 
they  appeared  too  small  for  toys.  So  did  even  the  clustered  village  in  the  valley, 
with  its  wooden  bridge  across  the  stream,  where  the  stream  tumbled  over  broken  rocks, 
and  roared  away  among  the  trees.  In  the  quiet  air,  there  was  a  sound  of  distant 
singing — shepherd  voices  ;  but,  as  one  bright  evening  cloud  floated  midway  along 
the  mountain's-side,  I  could  almost  have  believed  it  came  from  there,  and  was  not 
earthly  music.     All  at  once,  in  this  serenity,  great  Nature  spoke  to  me  ;   and  soothed 


532  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

me  to  lay  down  my  weary  head  upon  the  grass,  and  weep  as  I  had  not  wept  yet,  since 
Dora  died  ! 

I  had  found  a  packet  of  letters  awaiting  me  but  a  few  minutes  before,  and  had 
strolled  out  of  the  village  to  read  them  while  my  supper  was  making  ready.  Other 
packets  had  missed  me,  and  I  had  received  none  for  a  long  time.  Beyond  a  line  or 
two,  to  say  that  I  was  well,  and  had  arrived  at  such  a  place,  I  had  not  had  fortitude 
or  constancy  to  write  a  letter  since  I  left  home. 

The  packet  was  in  my  hand.     I  opened  it,  and  read  the  writing  of  Agnes. 

She  was  happy  and  useful,  was  prospering  as  she  had  hoped.  That  was  all  she 
told  me  of  herself.     The  rest  referred  to  me. 

She  gave  me  no  advice  ;  she  urged  no  duty  on  me  ;  she  only  told  me,  in  her  own 
fervent  manner,  what  her  trust  in  me  was.  She  knew  (she  said)  how  such  a  nature 
as  mine  would  turn  affliction  to  good.  She  knew  how  trial  and  emotion  would  exalt 
and  strengthen  it.  She  was  sure  that  in  my  every  purpose  I  should  gain  a  firmer 
and  a  higher  tendency,  through  the  grief  I  had  undergone.  She,  who  so  gloried  in 
my  fame,  and  so  looked  forward  to  its  augmentation,  well  knew  that  I  would  labour 
on.  She  knew  that  in  me,  sorrow  could  not  be  weakness,  but  must  be  strength.  As 
the  endurance  of  my  childish  days  had  done  its  part  to  make  me  what  I  was,  so 
greater  calamities  would  nerve  me  on,  to  be  yet  better  than  I  was  ;  and  so,  as  they 
had  taught  me,  would  I  teach  others.  She  commended  me  to  God,  who  had  taken 
my  innocent  darling  to  His  rest ;  and  in  her  sisterly  affection  cherished  me  always, 
and  was  always  at  my  side  go  where  I  would  ;  proud  of  what  I  had  done,  but  infinitely 
prouder  yet  of  what  I  was  reserved  to  do. 

I  put  the  letter  in  my  breast,  and  thought  what  had  I  been  an  hom-  ago  !  When 
I  heard  the  voices  die  away,  and  saw  the  quiet  evening  cloud  grow  dim,  and  all  the 
colours  in  the  valley  fade,  and  the  golden  snow  upon  the  mountain-tops  become  a 
remote  part  of  the  pale  night  sky,  yet  felt  that  the  night  was  passing  from  my  mind, 
and  all  its  shadows  clearing,  there  was  no  name  for  the  love  I  bore  her,  dearer  to  me, 
henceforward,  than  ever  until  then. 

I  read  her  letter,  many  times.  I  wrote  to  her  before  I  slept.  I  told  her  that  I 
had  been  in  sore  need  of  her  help  ;  that  without  her  I  was  not,  and  I  never  had  been, 
what  she  thought  me  ;  but,  that  she  inspired  me  to  be  that,  and  I  would  try. 

I  did  try.  In  three  months  more,  a  year  would  have  passed  since  the  beginning 
of  my  sorrow.  I  determined  to  make  no  resolutions  until  the  expiration  of  those  three 
months,  but  to  try.     I  lived  in  that  valley,  and  its  neighbourhood,  all  the  time. 

The  three  months  gone,  I  resolved  to  remain  away  from  home  for  some  time 
longer  ;  to  settle  myself  for  the  present  in  Switzerland,  which  was  growing  dear  to  me 
in  the  remembrance  of  that  evening  ;   to  resume  my  pen  ;   to  work. 

I  resorted  humbly  whither  Agnes  had  commended  me  ;  I  sought  out  Nature, 
never  sought  in  vain  ;  and  I  admitted  to  my  breast  the  human  interest  I  had  lately 
shrunk  from.  It  was  not  long,  before  I  had  almost  as  many  friends  in  the  valley  as 
in  Yarmouth  :  and  when  I  left  it,  before  the  winter  set  in,  for  Geneva,  and  came 
back  in  the  spring,  their  cordial  greetings  had  a  homely  sound  to  me,  although  they 
were  not  conveyed  in  English  words. 

I  worked  early  and  late,  patiently  and  hard.  I  wrote  a  Story,  with  a  purpose 
growing,  not  remotely,  out  of  my  experience,  and  sent  it  to  Traddles,  and  he  arranged 
for  its  publication  very  advantageously  for  me  ;  and  the  tidings  of  my  growing 
reputation  began  to  reach  me  from  travellers  whom  I  encountered  by  chance.      After 


ABSENCE  w.j 

some  rest  and  chiinge,  I  fell  to  work,  in  my  old  undent  w.iy,  on  a  new  fancy,  whieh 
took  stronpf  possession  of  me.  As  I  advanced  in  the  execution  of  this  task,  I  felt  it 
more  and  more,  and  roused  my  utmost  energies  to  do  it  well.  This  was  rriy  third 
work  of  fiction.  It  was  not  half  written,  when,  in  an  interval  of  rest,  I  thought  of 
returning  home. 

For  a  long  time,  though  studying  and  working  patiently,  I  had  accustomed 
myself  to  robust  exercise.  My  health,  severely  impaired  when  I  left  Kngland,  was 
quite  restored.  I  had  seen  much.  I  had  been  in  many  countries,  and  I  hoj)e  I  had 
improved  my  store  of  knowledge. 

I  have  now  recalled  all  th;it  I  think  it  needful  to  recall  here,  of  this  term  of  absence 
— with  one  reservation.  I  have  made  it,  thus  far,  with  no  purpose  of  suppressing  any 
of  my  thoughts  ;  for,  as  I  have  elsewhere  said,  this  narrative  is  my  written  memory. 
I  have  desired  to  keep  the  most  secret  current  of  my  mind  apart,  and  to  the  last.  I 
enter  on  it  now. 

I  cannot  so  completely  penetrate  the  mystery  of  my  own  heart,  as  to  know  when 
I  began  to  think  that  I  might  have  set  its  earliest  and  brightest  hopes  on  Agnes.  I 
cannot  say  at  what  stage  of  my  grief  it  first  became  associated  with  the  reflection, 
that,  in  my  wayward  boyhood,  I  had  thrown  away  the  treasure  of  her  love.  I  believe 
I  may  have  heard  some  whisper  of  that  distant  thought,  in  the  old  unhappy  loss  or 
want  of  something  never  to  be  realised,  of  which  I  had  been  sensible.  But  the  thought 
came  into  my  mind  as  a  new  reproach  and  new  regret,  when  I  was  left  so  sad  and 
lonely  in  the  world. 

If,  at  that  time,  I  had  been  much  with  her,  T  should,  in  the  weakness  of  my 
desolation,  have  betrayed  this.  It  was  what  I  remotely  dreaded  when  I  was  first 
impelled  to  stay  away  from  England.  I  could  not  have  borne  to  lose  the  smallest 
portion  of  her  sisterly  affection  ;  yet,  in  that  betrayal,  I  should  have  set  a  constraint 
between  us  hitherto  unknown. 

I  could  not  forget  that  the  feeling  with  which  she  now  regarded  me  had  grown 
up  in  my  own  free  choice  and  course.  That  if  she  had  ever  loved  me  with  another 
love — and  I  sometimes  thought  the  time  was  when  she  might  have  done  so — I  had  cast 
it  away.  It  was  nothing,  now,  that  I  had  accustomed  myself  to  think  of  her,  when  we 
were  both  mere  children,  as  one  who  was  far  removed  from  my  wild  fancies.  I  had 
bestowed  my  passionate  tenderness  upon  another  object ;  and  what  I  might  have 
done,  I  had  not  done  ;  and  what  Agnes  was  to  me,  I  and  her  own  noble  heart  had 
made  her. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  change  that  gradually  worked  in  me,  when  I  tried  to  get 
a  better  understanding  of  myself  and  be  a  better  man,  I  did  glance,  through  some 
indefinite  probation,  to  a  period  when  I  might  possibly  hope  to  cancel  the  mistaken 
past,  and  to  be  so  blessed  as  to  marry  her.  But,  as  time  wore  on,  this  shadowy  jirospect 
faded,  and  departed  from  me.  If  she  had  ever  loved  me,  then,  I  should  hold  her  the 
more  sacred,  remembering  the  confidences  I  had  reposed  in  her,  her  knowledge  of  my 
errant  heart,  the  sacrifice  she  must  have  made  to  be  my  friend  and  sister,  and  the 
victory  she  had  won.  If  she  had  never  loved  me,  could  I  believe  that  she  would  love 
me  now  ? 

I  had  always  felt  my  weakness,  in  comparison  with  her  constancy  and  fortitude  ; 
and  now  I  felt  it  more  and  more.  "\Miatever  I  might  have  been  to  her,  or  she  to  me. 
if  I  had  been  more  worthy  of  her  long  ago,  I  was  not  now,  and  she  was  not.  The 
time  was  past.     I  had  let  it  go  by,  and  had  deservedly  lost  her. 


534  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

That  I  suffered  much  in  these  contentions,  that  they  filled  me  with  unhappiness 
and  remorse,  and  yet  that  I  had  a  sustaining  sense  that  it  was  required  of  me,  in  right 
and  honour,  to  keep  away  from  myself,  with  shame,  the  thought  of  turning  to  the 
dear  girl  in  the  withering  of  my  hopes,  from  whom  I  had  frivolously  turned  when  they 
were  bright  and  fresh — which  consideration  was  at  the  root  of  every  thought  I  had 
concerning  her — is  all  equally  true.  I  made  no  effort  to  conceal  from  myself,  now, 
that  I  loved  her,  that  I  was  devoted  to  her  ;  but  I  brought  the  assurance  home 
to  myself,  that  it  was  now  too  late,  and  that  our  long-subsisting  relation  must  be 
undisturbed. 

I  had  thought,  much  and  often,  of  my  Dora's  shadowing  out  to  me  what  might 
have  happened,  in  those  years  that  were  destined  not  to  try  us.  I  had  considered 
how  the  things  that  never  happen,  are  often  as  much  realities  to  us,  in  their  effects, 
as  those  that  are  accomplished.  The  very  years  she  spoke  of,  were  realities  now,  for 
mv  correction  ;  and  would  have  been,  one  day,  a  little  later  perhaps,  though  we  had 
parted  in  our  earliest  folly.  I  endeavoured  to  convert  what  might  have  been 
between  myself  and  Agnes,  into  a  means  of  making  me  more  self-denying,  more 
resolved,  more  conscious  of  myself,  and  my  defects  and  errors.  Thus,  through  the 
reflection  that  it  might  have  been,  I  arrived  at  the  conviction  that  it  could  never  be. 

These,  with  their  perplexities  and  inconsistencies,  were  the  shifting  quicksands 
of  my  mind,  from  the  time  of  my  departure  to  the  time  of  my  return  home,  three  years 
afterwards.  Three  years  had  elapsed  since  the  sailing  of  the  emigrant  ship  ;  when, 
at  that  same  hour  of  sunset,  and  in  the  same  place,  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  packet 
vessel  that  brought  me  home,  looking  on  the  rosy  water  where  I  had  seen  the  image  of 
that  ship  reflected. 

Three  years.  Long  in  the  aggregate,  though  short  as  they  went  by.  And  home 
was  very  dear  to  me,  and  Agnes  too — but  she  was  not  mine — she  was  never  to  be 
mine.     She  might  have  been,  but  that  was  past ! 


CHAPTER    LIX 

RETURN 

I  LANDED  in  London  on  a  wintry  autumn  evening.     It  was  dark  and  raining, 
and  I  saw  more  fog  and  mud  in  a  minute  than  I  had  seen  in  a  year.     I  walked 
from  the  Custom  House  to  the  Monument  before  I  found  a  coach  ;    and 
although  the  very  house-fronts,  looking  on  the  swollen  gutters,  were  like  old 
friends  to  me,  I  could  not  but  admit  that  they  were  very  dingy  friends. 

I  have  often  remarked — I  suppose  everybody  has — that  one's  going  away  from  a 
familiar  place,  would  seem  to  be  the  signal  for  change  in  it.  As  I  looked  out  of  the 
coach-window,  and  observed  that  an  old  house  on  Fish  Street  Hill,  which  had  stood 
untouched  by  painter,  carpenter,  or  bricklayer,  for  a  century,  had  been  pulled  down 
in  my  absence  ;  and  that  a  neighboiu-ing  street,  of  time-honoured  insalubrity  and 
inconvenience,  was  being  drained  and  widened  ;  I  half  expected  to  find  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral  looking  older. 

For  some  changes  in  the  fortunes  of  my  friends,  I  was  prepared.  My  aunt  had 
long  been  re-established  at  Dover,  and  Traddles  had  begun  to  get  into  some  little 


ItmiIRN  585 

practice  at  the  liur,  in  Llic  very  lirst,  term  ;ifler  my  departure.  He  had  chambers  in 
Gray's  Inn,  now  ;  and  had  told  me,  in  his  last  letters,  that  he  was  not  without  hopes 
of  beinf;  soon  united  to  the  dcan^sl  f,'irl  in  the  world. 

They  expected  me  home  before  Christmas  ;  but  had  no  idea  of  my  rcturniiif^  so 
soon.  I  had  purposely  misled  them,  that  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  them  by 
surprise.  And  yet,  I  was  perverse  enough  to  feel  a  chili  and  disaj)pointrneiil  in 
receiving  no  welcome,  and  rattling,  alone  and  silent,  through  the  misty  streets. 

The  well-known  shops,  however,  with  their  cheerful  lights,  did  something  for  me ; 
and  when  I  alighted  at  the  door  of  the  Gray's  Inn  Coffee-house,  I  had  recovered  my 
s]iirits.  It  recalled,  at  first,  that  so-different  time  wlicn  I  had  put  up  at  the  Golden 
Cross,  and  reminded  me  of  the  changes  that  had  come  to  pass  since  then  ;  but  that 
was  natural. 

'  Do  you  know  where  Mr.  Traddles  liv^es  in  the  Inn  ?  '    I  asked  the  waiter,  as  I 
warmed  myself  by  the  coffee-room  lire. 
'  Holborn  Court,  sir.     Number  two.' 

'  Mr.  Traddles  has  a  rising  reputation  among  the  lawyers,  I  believe  ?  '   said  I. 
'  Well,  sir,'  returned  the  waiter,  '  probably  he  has,  sir  ;    but  I  am  not  aware  of 
it  myself.' 

This  waiter,  who  was  middle-aged  and  spare,  looked  for  help  to  a  waiter  of  more 
authority^ — a  stout,  potential  old  man,  with  a  double-chin,  in  black  breeches  and 
stockings,  who  came  out  of  a  place  like  a  churchwarden's  pew,  at  the  end  of  the  coffee- 
room,  where  he  kept  company  with  a  cash-box,  a  Directory,  a  Law-list,  and  other 
books  and  papers. 

'  Mr.  Traddles,'  said  the  spare  waiter.     '  Number  two  in  the  Court.' 
The  potential  waiter  waved  him  away,  and  turned,  gravely,  to  me. 
'  I  was  inquiring,'  said  I,  '  whether  Mr.  Traddles,  at  number  two  in  the  Court, 
has  not  a  rising  reputation  among  the  lawj'ers  ?  ' 

'  Never  heard  his  name,'  said  the  waiter,  in  a  rich  husky  voice. 
I  felt  quite  apologetic  for  Traddles. 

'  He  's  a  young  man,  sure  ?  '   said  the  portentous  waiter,  fixing  his  eyes  severely 
on  me.     '  How  long  has  he  been  in  the  Inn  ?  * 
'  Not  above  three  years,'  said  I. 

The  waiter,  who  I  supposed  had  lived  in  his  church-warden's  pew  for  forty  years, 
could  not  pursue  such  an  insignificant  subject.  He  asked  me  what  I  would  have  for 
dinner  ? 

I  felt  I  was  in  England  again,  and  really  was  quite  cast  down  on  Traddles's  account. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  hope  for  him.  I  meekly  ordered  a  bit  of  fish  and  a  steak,  and 
stood  before  the  fire  musing  on  his  obscurity. 

As  I  followed  the  chief  waiter  with  my  eyes,  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  the 
garden  in  which  he  had  gradually  blown  to  be  the  flower  he  was,  was  an  arduous  place 
to  rise  in.  It  had  such  a  prescriptive,  stiff-necked,  long-established,  solemn,  elderly 
air.  I  glanced  about  the  room,  which  had  had  its  sanded  floor  sanded,  no  doubt,  in 
exactly  the  same  manner  when  the  chief  waiter  was  a  boy — if  he  ever  was  a  boy, 
which  appeared  improbable  ;  and  at  the  shining  tables,  where  I  saw  myself  reflected, 
in  unruffled  depths  of  old  mahogany  ;  and  at  the  lamps,  without  a  flaw  in  their 
trimming  or  cleaning  ;  and  at  the  comfortable  green  curtains,  with  their  pure  brass 
rods,  snugly  enclosing  the  boxes  ;  and  at  the  two  large  coal  fires,  brightly  burning  ; 
and  at  the  rows  of  decanters,  burly  as  if  with  the  consciousness  of  pipes  of  expensive 


536  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

old  port  wine  below  ;  and  both  England,  and  the  law,  appeared  to  me  to  be  very 
difficult  indeed  to  be  taken  by  storm.  I  went  up  to  my  bedroom  to  change  my  wet 
clothes  ;  and  the  vast  extent  ol  that  old  wainscoted  apartment  (which  was  over  the 
archway  leading  to  the  Inn,  I  remember),  and  the  sedate  immensity  of  the  four-post 
bedstead,  and  the  indomitable  gravity  of  the  chests  of  drawers,  all  seemed  to  unite 
in  sternly  frowning  on  the  fortunes  of  Traddles,  or  on  any  such  daring  youth.  I  came 
down  again  to  my  dinner  ;  and  even  the  slow  comfort  of  the  meal,  and  the  orderly 
silence  of  the  place — which  was  bare  of  guests,  the  Long  Vacation  not  yet  being  over — 
were  eloquent  on  the  audacity  of  Traddles,  and  his  small  hopes  of  a  livelihood  for 
twenty  years  to  come. 

I  had  seen  nothing  like  this  since  I  went  away,  and  it  quite  dashed  my  hopes  for 
my  friend.  The  chief  waiter  had  had  enough  of  me.  He  came  near  me  no  more  ; 
but  devoted  himself  to  an  old  gentleman  in  long  gaiters,  to  meet  whom  a  pint  of 
special  port  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  cellar  of  its  own  accord,  for  he  gave  no  order. 
The  second  waiter  informed  me,  in  a  whisper,  that  this  old  gentleman  was  a  retired 
conveyancer  living  in  the  Square,  and  worth  a  mint  of  money,  which  it  was  expected 
he  would  leave  to  his  laundress's  daughter  ;  likewise  that  it  was  rumoured  that  he 
had  a  service  of  plate  in  a  bureau,  all  tarnished  with  lying  by,  though  more  than  one 
spoon  and  a  fork  had  never  yet  been  beheld  in  his  chambers  by  mortal  vision.  By 
this  time,  I  quite  gave  Traddles  up  for  lost ;  and  settled  in  my  own  mind  that  there 
was  no  hope  for  him. 

Being  very  anxious  to  see  the  dear  old  fellow,  nevertheless,  I  despatched  my 
dinner,  in  a  manner  not  at  all  calculated  to  raise  me  in  the  opinion  of  the  chief  waiter, 
and  hurried  out  by  the  back-way.  Number  two  in  the  Court  was  soon  reached  ; 
and  an  inscription  on  the  door-post  informing  me  that  Mr.  Traddles  occupied  a  set 
of  chambers  on  the  top  story,  I  ascended  the  staircase.  A  crazy  old  staircase  I  found 
it  to  be,  feebly  lighted  on  each  landing  by  a  club-headed  little  oil  wick,  dying  away 
in  a  little  dungeon  of  dirty  glass. 

In  the  course  of  my  stumbling  upstairs,  I  fancied  I  heard  a  pleasant  sound  of 
laughter  ;  and  not  the  laughter  of  an  attorney  or  barrister,  or  attorney's  clerk  or 
barrister's  clerk,  but  of  two  or  three  merry  girls.  Happening,  however,  as  I  stopped 
to  listen,  to  put  my  foot  in  a  hole  where  the  Honourable  Society-  of  Gray's  Inn  had 
left  a  plank  deficient,  I  fell  down  with  some  noise,  and  when  I  recovered  my  footing 
all  was  silent. 

Groping  my  way  more  carefully,  for  the  rest  of  the  journey,  my  heart  beat  high 
when  I  found  the  outer  door,  which  had  Mr.  Traddles  painted  on  it,  open.  I  knocked. 
A  considerable  scuffling  within  ensued,  but  nothing  else.     I  therefore  knocked  again. 

A  small  sharp-looking  lad,  half-footboy  and  half-clerk,  who  was  very  much  out 
of  breath,  but  who  looked  at  me  as  if  he  defied  me  to  prove  it  legally,  presented 
himself. 

'  Is  Mr.  Traddles  within  ?  '    I  said. 

'  Yes,  sir,  but  he  's  engaged.' 

'  I  want  to  see  him.' 

After  a  moment's  survey  of  me,  the  sharp-looking  lad  decided  to  let  me 
in ;  and  opening  the  door  wider  for  that  purpose,  admitted  me,  first,  into  a 
little  closet  of  a  hall,  and  next  into  a  little  sitting-room  ;  where  I  came  into  the 
presence  of  my  old  friend  (also  out  of  breath),  seated  at  a  table,  and  bending  over 
papers. 


RETURN  5.i7 

'Good  Cod!'  cried  'I'r;  if  Idles,  lookiiij»  iij).  'It's  Coppcrfield  !  '  and  rushed 
into  my  arms,  where  I  held  him  lifrhl. 

'  All  well,  my  dear  Traddlcs  ?  ' 

'  All  well,  my  dear,  dear  Copijerdeld,  and  nothing  but  good  news  !  ' 

We  cried  with  j)lcasure,  holh  of  iis. 

'My  dear  fellow,'  said  Traddlcs,  nimi)liiij,'  his  hair  in  his  excitement,  which  was 
a  most  unnecessary  operation,  '  my  dearest  Coppcrfield,  my  long-lost  and  most  welcome 
friend,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  IIow  brown  you  are  !  How  glad  I  am  !  Upon 
my  life  and  honour,  I  never  was  so  rejoiced,  my  beloved  Copijerlicld,  never  !  ' 

I  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  express  my  emotions.  I  was  (piite  unable  to  speak, 
at  first. 

'  My  dear  fellow  !  '  said  Traddlcs.  '  And  grown  .so  famous  !  My  glorious 
Coppcrfield  !  Good  gracious  me.  ivhen  did  you  come,  where  have  you  come  from, 
what  have  you  been  doing  ?  ' 

Never  pausing  for  an  answer  to  anything  he  said,  Traddlcs,  who  had  clapped 
me  into  an  easy-chair  by  the  fire,  all  this  time  impetuously  stirred  the  fire  with  one 
hand,  and  pulled  at  my  neckerchief  with  the  other,  under  some  wild  delusion  that  it 
was  a  great-coat.  Without  jKitting  down  the  poker,  he  now  hugged  me  again  ;  and 
I  hugged  him  ;  and,  both  laughing,  and  both  wiping  our  eyes,  we  both  sat  down, 
and  shook  hands  across  the  hearth. 

'  To  think,'  said  Traddlcs,  '  that  you  should  have  been  so  nearly  coming  home  as 
you  must  have  been,  my  dear  old  boy,  and  not  at  the  ceremony  !  ' 

'  What  ceremony,  my  dear  Traddlcs  ?  ' 

'  Good  gracious  me  !  '  cried  Traddlcs,  opening  his  eyes  in  his  old  wav.  '  Didn't 
you  get  my  last  letter  ?  ' 

'  Certainly  not,  if  it  referred  to  any  ceremony.' 

'  Why,  my  dear  Coppcrfield.'  said  Traddles,  sticking  his  hair  upright  with  both 
hands,  and  then  putting  his  hands  on  my  knees,  '  I  am  married  !  ' 

'  Married  !  '    I  cried  joyfully. 

'  Lord  bless  me,  j'cs  !  '  said  Traddles — '  by  the  Rev.  Horace — to  Sophy — down 
in  Devonshire.     Why,  my  dear  boy,  she  's  behind  the  window-curtain  !     Look  here  I  ' 

To  my  amazement,  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world  came  at  that  same  instant, 
laughing  and  blushing,  from  her  place  of  concealment.  And  a  more  cheerful,  amiable, 
honest,  happy,  bright-looking  bride,  I  believe  (as  I  could  not  help  saying  on  the  spot) 
the  world  never  saw.  I  kissed  her  as  an  old  acquaintance  should,  and  wished  them 
joy  with  all  my  might  of  heart. 

'  Dear  me,'  said  Traddles,  '  what  a  delightful  re-union  this  is  !  You  are  so 
extremely  brown,  my  dear  Coppcrfield  !     God  bless  my  soul,  how  happy  I  am  I  ' 

'  And  so  am  I,'  said  L 

'  And  I  am  sure  I  am  !  '    said  the  blushing  and  laughing  Sophy. 

'  Wc  are  all  as  happy  as  possible  !  '  said  Traddles.  "  Even  the  girls  are  happy. 
Dear  me,  I  declare  I  forgot  them  !  ' 

'  Forgot  ?  '    said  L 

'  The  girls,'  said  Traddles.  '  Sophy's  sisters.  They  are  staying  with  us.  They 
have  come  to  have  a  peep  at  London.  The  fact  is,  when — was  it  you  that  tumbled 
upstairs,  Coppcrfield  ?  ' 

'  It  was,'  said  I,  laughing. 

'  Well  then,  when  you  tumbled  upstairs,'  said  Traddles,  '  I  was  romping  with 


538  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

the  girls.  In  point  of  fact,  we  were  playing  at  Puss  in  the  Corner.  But  as  that 
wouldn't  do  in  Westminster  Hall,  and  as  it  wouldn't  look  quite  professional  if  they 
were  seen  by  a  client,  they  decamped.  And  they  are  now — listening,  I  have  no 
doubt,'  said  Traddles,  glancing  at  the  door  of  another  room. 

'  I  am  sorry,'  said  I,  laughing  afresh,  '  to  have  occasioned  such  a  dispersion.' 

'  Upon  my  word,'  rejoined  Traddles,  greatly  delighted,  '  if  you  had  seen  them 
running  away,  and  running  back  again,  after  you  had  knocked,  to  pick  up  the  combs 
they  had  dropped  out  of  their  hair,  and  going  on  in  the  maddest  manner,  you  wouldn't 
have  said  so.     My  love,  will  you  fetch  the  girls  ?  ' 

Sophy  tripped  away,  and  we  heard  her  received  in  the  adjoining  roona  with  a 
peal  of  laughter. 

'  Really  musical,  isn't  it,  my  dear  Copperfield  ?  '  said  Traddles.  '  It 's  very 
agreeable  to  hear.  It  quite  lights  up  these  old  rooms.  To  an  unfortunate  bachelor 
of  a  fellow  who  has  lived  alone  all  his  life,  you  know,  it 's  positively  delicious.  It 's 
charming.  Poor  things,  they  have  had  a  great  loss  in  Sophy — who,  I  do  assure  you, 
Copperfield,  is,  and  ever  was,  the  dearest  girl  ! — and  it  gratifies  me  beyond  expression 
to  find  them  in  such  good  spirits.  The  society  of  girls  is  a  very  delightful  thing, 
Copperfield.     It 's  not  professional,  but  it 's  very  delightful.' 

Observing  that  he  slighth'  faltered,  and  comprehending  that  in  the  goodness  of 
his  heart  he  was  fearful  of  giving  me  some  pain  by  what  he  had  said,  I  expressed  my 
concurrence  with  a  heartiness  that  evidently  relieved  and  pleased  him  greatly. 

'  But  then,'  said  Traddles,  '  our  domestic  arrangements  are,  to  say  the  truth, 
quite  unprofessional  altogether,  my  dear  Copperfield.  Even  Sophy's  being  here, 
is  unprofessional.  And  we  have  no  other  place  of  abode.  We  have  put  to  sea  in  a 
cockboat,  but  we  are  quite  prepared  to  rough  it.  And  Sophy's  an  extraordinary 
manager  !  You  '11  be  surprised  how  those  girls  are  stowed  away.  I  am  sure  I  hardly 
know  how  it 's  done.' 

'  Are  many  of  the  young  ladies  with  you  ?  '    I  inquired. 

'  The  eldest,  the  Beauty  is  here,'  said  Traddles,  in  a  low  confidential  voice, 
'  Caroline.  And  Sarah's  here — the  one  I  mentioned  to  you. as  having  something  the 
matter  with  her  spine,  you  know.  Immensely  better  !  And  the  two  youngest  that 
Sophy  educated  are  with  us.     And  Louisa's  here.' 

'  Indeed  !  '    cried  I. 

'  Yes,'  said  Traddles.  '  Now  the  whole  set — I  mean  the  chambers — is  only  three 
rooms  ;  but  Sophj'  arranges  for  the  girls  in  the  most  wonderful  way,  and  they  sleep 
as  comfortably  as  possible.  Three  in  that  room,'  said  Traddles,  pointing.  '  Two  in 
that.' 

I  could  not  help  glancing  round,  in  search  of  the  accommodation  remaining  for 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Traddles.     Traddles  understood  me. 

'  Well  !  '  said  Traddles,  '  we  are  prepared  to  rough  it,  as  I  said  just  now,  and 
we  did  improvise  a  bed  last  week,  upon  the  floor  here.  But  there  's  a  little  room  in 
the  roof — a  very  nice  room,  when  you  're  up  there — which  Sophy  papered  herself,  to 
surprise  me  ;  and  that 's  our  room  at  present.  It 's  a  capital  little  gipsy  sort  of  place. 
There  's  quite  a  view  from  it.' 

'  And  you  are  happily  married  at  last,  my  dear  Traddles  !  '  said  I.  '  How 
rejoiced  1  am  !  ' 

'  Thank  you,  my  dear  Copperfield,'  said  Traddles,  as  we  shook  hands  once  more. 
« Yes,  I  am  as  happy  as  it 's  possible  to  be.     There  's  your  old  friend,  you  see,'  said 


JIETUKN  589 

Traddles,  noddiiif,'  Iriumpluuitly  :it  Hif;  fI()wor-f)i)l  iiiid  stand  ;  '  and  tlu-rn  's  the  ta})lc 
with  the  marble  lop  !  All  I  lie  other  fiiniiliire  is  plain  and  servieeahle,  you  perceive. 
And  as  to  plate,  Lord  bless  you,  we  haven't  so  much  as  a  tea-spoon.' 

'  All  to  be  earned  ?  '    said  I,  eheerfidly. 

'  Exactly  so,'  replied  Traddles,  '  all  to  be  earned.  Of  course  we  have  something 
in  the  shape  of  tea-spoons,  because  we  stir  our  tea.     But  they  're  Britannia-metal.' 

'  The  silver  will  be  the  brif;hter  when  it  comes,'  said  I. 

'  The  very  thing  we  say  !  '  cried  Traddles.  '  You  see,  my  dear  C'opjjcrlield,' 
falling  again  into  the  low  confidential  tone,  '  after  I  had  delivered  my  argument  in 
Doe  dem.  Jipes  versus  Wigzell,  which  did  me  great  service  with  the  profession, 
I  went  down  into  Devonshire,  and  had  some  serious  converi»ation  in  j)rivate  with  the 
Reverend  Horace.  I  dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  Sophy — who  I  ilo  assure  you, 
Copperfield,  is  the  dearest  girl  ! ' 

'  I  am  certain  she  is  !  '    said  I. 

'  She  is,  indeed  !  '  rejoined  Traddles.  '  But  I  am  afraid  I  am  wandering  from 
the  subject.     Did  I  mention  the  Reverend  Horace  ?  ' 

'  You  said  that  you  dwelt  upon  the  fact ' 

'  True  !  Upon  the  fact  that  Sophy  and  I  had  been  engaged  for  a  long  period, 
and  that  Sophy,  with  the  permission  of  her  parents,  was  more  than  content  to  take 
me — in  short,'  said  Traddles,  with  his  old  frank  smile,  '  on  our  present  Britannia- 
metal  footing.  Very  well.  I  then  proposed  to  the  Reverend  Horace — who  is  a 
most  excellent  clergyman,  Cojiperfield,  and  ought  to  be  a  Bishop  ;  or  at  least  ought 
to  have  enough  to  live  upon,  without  pinching  himself — that  if  I  could  turn  the  corner, 
say  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  in  one  year  ;  and  could  sec  my  way  pretty  clearly 
to  that,  or  something  better,  next  year  ;  and  could  plainly  furnish  a  little  place  like 
this,  besides  ;  then,  and  in  that  ease,  Sophy  and  I  should  be  united.  I  took  the  liberty 
of  representing  that  we  had  been  patient  for  a  good  many  years  ;  and  that  the 
circumstance  of  Sophy's  being  extraordinarily  useful  at  home,  ought  not  to  operate 
with  her  affectionate  parents,  against  her  establishment  in  life — don't  you  see  ?  ' 

'  Certainly  it  ovight  not,'  said  T. 

'  I  am  glad  you  think  so,  Copperfield,'  rejoined  Traddles,  '  because,  without  any 
imputation  on  the  Reverend  Horace,  I  do  think  parents,  and  brothers,  and  so  forth, 
are  sometimes  rather  selfish  in  such  cases.  Well  !  I  also  pointed  out,  that  my  most 
earnest  desire  was,  to  be  useful  to  the  family  ;  and  that  if  I  got  on  in  the  world,  and 
anything  should  happen  to  him — I  refer  to  the  Reverend  Horace — — ' 

'  I  understand,'  said  I. 

'  — Or  to  Mrs.  Crewler — it  would  be  the  utmost  gratification  of  my  wishes,  to  be 
a  parent  to  the  girls.  He  replied  in  a  most  admirable  manner,  exceedingly  flattering 
to  my  feelmgs,  and  undertook  to  obtain  the  consent  of  Mrs.  Crewler  to  this  arrange- 
ment. They  had  a  dreadful  time  of  it  with  her.  It  moimted  from  her  legs  into  her 
chest,  and  then  into  her  head ' 

'  What  movmted  ?  '    I  asked. 

'  Her  grief,'  replied  Traddles,  with  a  serious  look.  '  Her  feelings  generally.  .4s 
I  mentioned  on  a  former  occasion,  she  is  a  very  superior  woman,  but  has  lost  the  use 
of  her  limbs.  ^Vhateve^  occiu-s  to  harass  her,  usually  settles  in  her  legs  ;  but  on  this 
occasion  it  mounted  to  the  chest,  and  then  to  the  head,  and,  in  short,  pervaded  the 
whole  system  in  a  most  alarming  manner.  However,  they  brought  her  through  it 
by  unremitting  and  affectionate  attention  ;   and  we  were  married  yesterday  six  weeks. 


540  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

You  have  no  idea  what  a  Monster  I  felt,  Copperfield,  when  I  saw  the  whole  family 
crying  and  fainting  away  in  every  direction  !  Mrs.  Crewler  couldn't  see  me  before  we 
left^-couldn't  forgive  me,  then,  for  depriving  her  of  her  child — but  she  is  a  good 
creature,  and  has  done  so  since.     I  had  a  delightful  letter  from  her,  only  this  morning.' 

'  And  in  short,  my  dear  friend,'  said  I,  '  you  feel  as  blest  as  you  deserve  to  feel  !  ' 

'  Oh  !  That 's  your  partiality  !  '  laughed  Traddles.  '  But,  indeed,  I  am  in  a 
most  enviable  state.  I  work  hard,  and  read  Law  insatiably.  I  get  up  at  five  every 
morning,  and  don't  mind  it  at  all.  I  hide  the  girls  in  the  day-time,  and  make  merry 
with  them  in  the  evening.  And  I  assure  you  I  am  quite  sorry  that  they  are  going 
home  on  Tuesday,  which  is  the  day  before  the  first  day  of  Michaelmas  Term.  But 
here,'  said  Traddles,  breaking  off  in  his  confidence,  and  speaking  aloud,  '  are  the  girls  I 
Mr.  Copperfield,  Miss  Crewler — Miss  Sarah — Miss  Louisa — Margaret  and  Lucy  !  ' 

They  were  a.  perfect  nest  of  roses  ;  they  looked  so  wholesome  and  fresh.  They 
were  all  pretty,  and  Miss  Caroline  was  very  handsome,  but  there  was  a  loving,  cheerful, 
fireside  quality  in  Sophy's  bright  looks,  which  was  better  than  that,  and  which  assured 
me  that  my  friend  had  chosen  well.  We  all  sat  rovuid  the  fire  ;  while  the  sharp  boy, 
who  I  now  divined  had  lost  his  breath  in  putting  the  papers  out,  cleared  them  away 
again,  and  produced  the  tea-things.  After  that,  he  retired  for  the  night,  shutting  the 
outer-door  upon  us  with  a  bang.  Mrs.  Traddles,  with  perfect  pleasure  and  composure 
beaming  from  her  household  eyes,  having  made  the  tea,  then  quietly  made  the  toast 
as  she  sat  in  a  corner  by  the  fire. 

She  had  seen  Agnes,  she  told  me,  while  she  was  toasting.  '  Tom  '  had  taken 
her  down  into  Kent  for  a  wedding  trip,  and  there  she  had  seen  my  aunt,  too  ;  and 
both  my  aunt  and  Agnes  were  well,  and  they  had  all  talked  of  nothing  but  me. 
'  Tom  '  had  never  had  me  out  of  his  thoughts,  she  really  believed,  all  the  time  I  had 
been  away.  '  Tom  '  was  the  authority  for  everything.  '  Tom  '  was  evidently  the 
idol  of  her  life  ;  never  to  be  shaken  on  his  pedestal  by  any  commotion  ;  always 
to  be  believed  in,  and  done  homage  to  with  the  whole  faith  of  her  heart,  come 
what  might. 

The  deference  which  both  she  and  Traddles  showed  towards  the  Beauty,  pleased 
me  very  much.  I  don't  know  that  I  thought  it  very  reasonable  ;  but  I  thought  it 
very  delightful,  and  essentially  a  part  of  their  character.  If  Traddles  ever  for  an 
instant  missed  the  tea-spoons  that  were  still  to  be  won,  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  when 
he  handed  the  Beauty  her  tea.  If  his  sweet-tempered  wife  could  have  got  up  any  self- 
assertion  against  any  one,  I  am  satisfied  it  could  only  have  been  because  she  was  the 
Beauty's  sister.  A  few  slight  indications  of  a  rather  petted  and  capricious  manner, 
which  I  observed  in  the  Beauty,  were  manifestly  considered,  by  Traddles  and  his 
wife,  as  her  birthright  and  natural  endowment.  If  she  had  been  born  a  Queen  Bee, 
and  they  labouring  Bees  they  could  not  have  been  more  satisfied  of  that. 

But  their  self-forgetfulness  charmed  me.  Their  pride  in  these  girls,  and  their 
submission  of  themselves  to  all  their  whims,  was  the  pleasantest  little  testimony  to 
their  own  worth  I  could  have  desired  to  see.  If  Traddles  were  addressed  as  '  a  darling,' 
once  in  the  course  of  that  evening  ;  and  besought  to  bring  something  here,  or  carry 
something  there,  or  take  something  up,  or  put  something  down,  or  find  something, 
or  fetch  something,  he  was  so  addressed,  by  one  or  other  of  his  sisters-in-law,  at  least 
twelve  times  in  an  hour.  Neither  could  they  do  anything  without  Sophy.  Some- 
body's hair  fell  down,  and  nobody  but  Sophy  could  put  it  up.  Somebody  forgot  how 
a  particular  tune  went,  and  nobody  but  Sophy  could  hum  that  tune  right.     Somebody 


iiiyrtJtN  541 

wanted  to  recall  the  name  of  a  place  in  Devonshire,  and  only  vSophy  knew  il.  Some- 
thing was  wanted  to  be  written  home,  and  Sophy  alone  eoiild  he  trusted  to  write 
before  breakfast  in  the  niorniiif,'.  Sonichody  broke  down  in  a  [lieee  of  knittiii^j,  and 
no  one  but  Sophy  was  able  to  put  the  dof.uilter  in  the  rijjht  direetion.  They  were 
entire  mistresses  of  the  plaee,  and  Sophy  and  Traddles  waited  on  tlicin.  How  many 
ehildren  Sophy  could  have  taken  cai-o  c)f  in  her  time,  I  ean't  imajjine  ;  but  she  secrnerl 
to  be  famous  for  knowiuff  every  sort  of  soiiy  that  ever  was  addressed  to  a  ehihl  in 
the  English  tongue  ;  and  she  sang  dozens  to  order  with  the  clearest  little  voice  in  the 
world,  one  after  another  (every  sister  issuing  directions  for  a  different  tune,  and  the 
Beauty  generally  striking  in  last)>  so  that  I  was  quite  fascinated.  The  best  of  all 
was,  that,  in  the  midst  of  their  exactions,  all  the  sisters  had  a  great  tenderness  and 
respect  both  for  Sophy  and  Traddles.  I  am  sure,  when  I  took  my  leave,  and  Tradflles 
was  coming  out  to  walk  with  me  to  the  coffee-house,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  an 
obstinate  head  of  hair,  or  any  other  head  of  hair,  rolling  about  in  such  a  shower 
of  kisses. 

Altogether,  it  was  a  scene  I  could  not  help  dwelling  on  with  pleasure,  for  a  long 
time  after  I  got  back  and  had  wished  Traddles  good-night.  If  I  had  beheld  a  thou- 
sand roses  blowing  in  a  top  set  of  chambers,  in  that  withered  Gray's  Inn,  they  could 
not  have  brightened  it  half  so  much.  The  idea  of  those  Devonshire  girls,  among  the 
dry  law-stationers  and  the  attorneys'  oiliees  ;  and  of  the  tea  and  toast,  and  children's 
songs  in  that  grim  atmosphere  of  pounce  and  parchment,  red-tape,  dusty  wafers, 
ink-jars,  brief  and  draft  paper,  law  reports,  writs,  declarations,  and  bills  of  costs, 
seemed  almost  as  pleasantly  fanciful  as  if  I  had  dreamed  that  the  Sultan's  famous 
family  had  been  admitted  on  the  roll  of  attorneys,  and  had  brought  the  talking  bird, 
the  singing  tree,  and  the  golden  water  into  Cray's  Inn  Hall.  Somehow,  I  found 
that  I  had  taken  leave  of  Traddles  for  the  night,  and  come  back  to  the  coffee-hou.se, 
with  a  great  change  in  my  despondency  about  him.  I  began  to  think  he  would  get 
on,  in  spite  of  all  the  many  orders  of  chief  waiters  in  England. 

Drawing  a  chair  before  one  of  the  coffee-room  fires  to  think  about  him  at  my 
leisure,  I  gradually  fell  from  the  consideration  of  his  happiness  to  tracing  prospects 
in  the  live-coals,  and  to  thinking,  as  they  broke  and  changed,  of  the  principal 
vicissitudes  and  separations  that  had  marked  my  life.  I  had  not  seen  a  coal  fire, 
since  I  had  left  England  three  years  ago  :  though  many  a  wood  (ire  had  I  watched, 
as  it  crumbled  into  hoary  ashes,  and  mingled  with  the  feathery  heap  upon  the  hearth, 
which  not  inaptly  figured  to  me,  in  my  despondency,  my  own  dead  hopes. 

I  could  think  of  the  past  now,  gravely,  but  not  bitterly  ;  and  could  contemplate 
the  future  in  a  brave  spirit.  Home,  in  its  best  sense,  was  for  me  no  more.  She  in 
whom  I  might  have  inspired  a  dearer  love,  I  had  taught  to  be  my  sister.  She  would 
marry,  and  would  have  new  claimants  on  her  tenderness  :  and  in  doing  it,  would 
never  know  the  love  for  her  that  had  grown  up  in  my  heart.  It  was  right  that  I 
should  pay  the  forfeit  of  my  headlong  passion.     What  I  reaped,  I  had  sown. 

I  was  thinking.  And  had  I  truly  disciplined  my  heart  to  this,  and  could  I 
resolutely  bear  it,  and  eahnly  hold  the  plaee  in  her  home  which  she  had  calmly  held 
in  mine,— when  I  found  my  eyes  resting  on  a  countenance  that  might  have  arisen  out 
of  the  fire,  in  its  association  with  my  early  remembrances. 

Little  Mr.  Chillip  the  Doctor,  to  whose  good  offices  I  was  indebted  in  the  very 
first  chapter  of  this  history,  sat  reading  a  newspaper  in  the  shadow  of  an  opposite 
corner.     He  was  tolerably  stricken  in  years  by  this  time  ;    but,  being  a  mild,  meek, 


542  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

calm  little  man,  had  worn  so  easily,  that  I  thought  he  looked  at  that  moment  just  as 
he  might  have  looked  when  he  sat  in  our  parlour,  waiting  for  me  to  be  born. 

Mr.  Chillip  had  left  Blunderstone  six  or  seven  years  ago,  and  I  had  never  seen 
him  since.  He  sat  placidly  perusing  the  newspaper,  with  his  little  head  on  one  side, 
and  a  glass  of  warm  sherry  negus  at  his  elbow.  He  was  so  extremely  conciliatory  in 
his  manner  that  he  seemed  to  apologise  to  the  very  newspaper  for  taking  the  liberty 
of  reading  it. 

I  walked  up  to  where  he  was  sitting,  and  said,  '  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Chillip  ?  ' 

He  was  greatly  fluttered  by  this  unexpected  address  from  a  stranger,  and  replied, 
in  his  slow  Avay,  '  I  thank  you,  sir,  you  are  very  good.  Thank  you,  sir.  I  hope  you 
are  well.' 

'  You  don't  remember  me  ?  '   said  I. 

'  Well,  sir,'  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  smiling  very  meekly,  and  shaking  his  head  as  he 
surveyed  me,  '  I  have  a  kind  of  an  impression  that  something  in  your  countenance  is 
familiar  to  me,  sir  ;   but  I  couldn't  lay  my  hand  upon  your  name,  really.' 

'  And  yet  you  knew  it,  long  before  I  knew  it  myself,'  I  returned. 

'  Did  I  indeed,  sir  ?  '  said  Mr.  ChilHp.  '  Is  it  possible  that  I  had  the  honour,  sir, 
of  officiating  when ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  I. 

'  Dear  me  !  '  cried  Mr.  Chillip.  '  But  no  doubt  you  are  a  good  deal  changed 
since  then,  sir  ?  ' 

'  Probably,'  said  I. 

'  Well,  sir,'  observed  Mr.  Chillip.  '  I  hope  you  '11  excuse  me,  if  I  am  compelled 
to  ask  the  favour  of  your  name  ?  ' 

On  my  telling  him  my  name,  he  was  really  moved.  He  quite  shook  hands  with 
me — which  was  a  violent  proceeding  for  him,  his  usual  course  being  to  slide  a  tepid 
little  fish-slice,  an  inch  or  two  in  advance  of  his  hip,  and  evince  the  greatest  discom- 
posure when  anybody  grappled  with  it.  Even  now,  he  put  his  hand  in  his  coat- 
pocket  as  soon  as  he  could  disengage  it,  and  seemed  relieved  when  he  had  got  it  safe 
back. 

'  Dear  me,  sir  !  '  said  Mr.  Chillip,  surveying  me  with  his  head  on  one  side. 
'  And  it 's  Mr.  Copperfield,  is  it  ?  Well,  sir,  I  think  I  should  have  known  you,  if  I 
had  taken  the  liberty  of  looking  more  closely  at  you.  There  's  a  strong  resemblance 
between  you  and  your  poor  father,  sir.' 

'  I  never  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  my  father,'  I  observed. 

'  Very  true,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Chillip,  in  a  soothing  tone.  '  And  very  much  to  be 
deplored  it  was,  on  all  accounts  !  We  are  not  ignorant,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Chillip,  slowly 
shaking  his  little  head  again,  '  down  in  our  part  of  the  country,  of  your  fame.  There 
must  he  great  excitement  here,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Chillip,  tapping  himself  on  the  forehead 
with  his  forefinger.     '  You  must  find  it  a  trying  occupation,  sir  !  ' 

'  What  is  your  part  of  the  country  now  ?  '   I  asked,  seating  myself  near  him. 

'  I  am  established  within  a  few  miles  of  Bury  St.  Edmund's,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Chillip. 
'  Mrs.  Chillip  coming  into  a  little  property  in  that  neighbourhood,  under  her  father's 
will,  I  l)ought  a  practice  down  there,  in  which  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  I  am  doing  well. 
My  daughter  is  growing  quite  a  tall  lass  now,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Chillip,  giving  his  little 
head  another  little  shake.  '  Her  mother  let  down  two  tucks  m  her  frocks  only  last 
week.     Such  is  time,  you  see,  sir  !  ' 

As  the  little  man  put  his  now  empty  glass  to  his  lips,  when  he  made  this  reflection. 


Ill  :T  URN  648 

I  proposed  to  him  to  have  it  reliilod,  und  I  would  iteep  him  company  with  another. 
'  Well,  sir,'  he  returned,  in  his  slow  w.iy,  '  it  's  more  than  I  am  accustomed  to  ;  hut  I 
can't  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  your  conversation.  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  I 
had  the  honour  of  attending  you  in  the  measles.  You  came  through  them 
charmingly,  sir  !  ' 

I  acknowledged  tiiis  compliment,  and  ordered  the  negus,  which  was  soon 
produced.  '  Quite  an  unconunon  dissipation  I  '  said  Mr.  Chillip,  stirring  it,  '  but  I 
can't  resist  so  extraordinary  an  occasion.     You  have  no  family,  sir  ?  ' 

I  shook  my  head. 

'  I  was  aware  that  you  sustained  a  bereavement,  sir,  some  time  ago,'  said  Mr. 
Chillip.  '  I  heard  it  from  your  father-in-law's  sister.  Very  decided  character  there, 
sir  ?  • 

'  Why,  yes,'  said  I,  '  decided  enough.     Where  did  you  see  her,  .Mr.  Ciiillip  ?  ' 

'  Are  you  not  aware,  sir,'  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  with  his  placidest  smile,  '  that 
your  father-in-law  is  again  a  neighbour  of  mine  ?  ' 

'  No,'  said  I. 

'  He  is  indeed,  sir  !  '  said  Mr.  Chillip.  '  Married  a  young  lady  of  that  part, 
with  a  very  good  little  property,  poor  thing. — And  this  action  of  the  brain  now,  sir  ? 
Don't  you  fmd  it  fatigue  you  ?  '  said  Mr.  Chillip,  looking  at  me  like  an  admiring 
Robin. 

I  waived  that  question,  and  returned  to  the  Murdstones.  '  I  was  aware  of  his 
being  married  again.     Do  you  attend  the  family  ?  '   I  asked. 

'  Not  regularly.  I  have  been  called  in,'  he  replied.  '  Strong  phrenological 
development  of  the  organ  of  firmness,  in  Mr.  Murdstone  and  his  sister,  sir.' 

I  replied  with  such  an  expressive  look,  that  Mr.  Chillip  was  emboldened  by  that, 
and  the  negus  together,  to  give  his  head  several  short  shakes,  and  thoughtfully  exclaim, 
'  Ah,  dear  me  !     We  remember  old  times,  Mr.  Copperfield  !  ' 

'  And  the  brother  and  sister  are  pursuing  their  old  course,  are  they  ?  '   said  I. 

'  Well,  sir,'  replied  Mr.  Chillip,  '  a  medical  man,  being  so  much  in  families,  ought 
to  have  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  anything  but  his  profession.  Still,  I  must  say,  they 
are  very  severe,  sir  :   both  as  to  this  life  and  the  next.' 

'  The  next  will  be  regulated  without  much  reference  to  them,  I  dare  say,'  I 
returned  :    '  what  are  they  doing  as  to  this  ?  ' 

Mr.  Chillip  shook  his  head,  stirred  his  negus,  and  sipped  it. 

'  She  was  a  charming  woman,  sir  !  '   he  observed  in  a  plaintive  manner. 

'  The  present  Mrs.  Murdstone  ?  ' 

'  A  charming  woman  indeed,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Chillip  ;  '  as  amiable,  I  am  sure,  sis  it 
was  possible  to  be  !  Mrs.  Chillip's  opinion  is,  that  her  spirit  has  been  entirely  broken 
since  her  marriage,  and  that  she  is  all  but  melancholy  mad.  And  the  ladies,'  observed 
Mr.  Chillip,  timorously,  '  are  great  observers,  sir.' 

'  I  suppose  she  was  to  be  subdued  and  broken  to  their  detestable  mould,  Heaven 
help  her  !  '    said  I.     '  And  she  has  been.' 

'  Well,  sir,  there  were  violent  quarrels  at  first,  I  assure  you,'  said  Mr.  Chillip  ; 
'  but  she  is  quite  a  shadow  now.  Would  it  be  considered  forward  if  I  was  to  say  to 
you,  sir,  in  confidence,  that  since  the  sister  came  to  help,  the  brother  and  sister 
between  them  have  nearly  reduced  her  to  a  state  of  mibecility  ?  ' 

I  told  him  I  could  easily  believe  it. 

'  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,'  said  Mr.  Chillip,  fortifying  himself  with  another 


544  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

sip  of  negus,  '  between  you  and  me,  sir,  that  her  mother  died  of  it — or  that  tyranny, 
gloom,  and  worry  have  made  Mrs.  Murdstone  nearly  imbecile.  She  was  a  lively 
young  woman,  sir,  before  marriage,  and  their  gloom  and  austerity  destroyed  her. 
They  go  about  with  her,  now,  more  like  her  keepers  than  her  husband  and  sister-in- 
law.  That  was  Mrs.  Chillip's  remark  to  me,  only  last  week.  And  I  assure  you,  sir, 
the  ladies  are  great  observers.     Mrs.  Chillip  herself  is  a  great  observer  !  ' 

'  Does  he  gloomily  profess  to  be  (I  am  ashamed  to  use  the  word  in  such  association) 
religious  still  ?  '    I  inquired. 

'  You  anticipate,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Chillip,  his  eye-lids  getting  quite  red  with  the 
imwonted  stimulus  in  which  he  was  indulging.  '  One  of  Mrs.  Chillip's  most  impressive 
remarks.  Mrs.  Chillip,'  he  proceeded,  in  the  calmest  and  slowest  manner,  '  quite 
electrified  me,  by  pointing  out  that  Mr.  Murdstone  sets  up  an  image  of  himself,  and 
calls  it  the  Divine  Nature.  You  might  have  knocked  me  down  on  the  flat  of  my 
back,  sir,  with  the  feather  of  a  pen,  I  assure  you,  when  Mrs.  Chillip  said  so.  The 
ladies  are  great  observers,  sir  ?  ' 

'  Intuitively,'  said  I,  to  his  extreme  delight. 

'  I  am  very  happy  to  receive  such  support  in  my  opinion,  sir,'  he  rejoined.  '  It 
is  not  often  that  I  venture  to  give  a  non-medical  opinion,  I  assure  you.  Mr.  Murdstone 
delivers  public  addresses  sometimes,  and  it  is  said, — in  short,  sir,  it  is  said  by  Mrs. 
Chillip, — that  the  darker  tyrant  he  has  lately  been,  the  more  ferocious  is  his  doctrine.' 

'  I  believe  Mrs.  Chillij^  to  be  perfectly'  right,'  said  I. 

'  Mrs.  Chillip  does  go  so  far  as  to  say,'  pursued  the  meekest  of  little  men,  much 
encouraged,  '  that  what  such  people  miscall  their  religion,  is  a  vent  for  their  bad- 
humours  and  arrogance.  And  do  you  know  I  must  say,  sir,'  he  continued,  mildly 
laying  his  head  on  one  side,  '  that  I  don't  find  authority  for  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone 
in  the  New  Testament  ?  ' 

'  I  never  found  it  either  !  '    said  I. 

'  In  the  meantime,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Chillip,  '  they  are  much  disliked  ;  and  as  they 
are  very  free  in  consigning  everybody  who  dislikes  them  to  perdition,  we  really  have 
a  good  deal  of  perdition  going  on  in  oiu-  neighbourhood  !  However,  as  Mrs.  Chillip 
says,  sir,  they  undergo  a  continual  punishment  ;  for  they  are  turned  inward,  to  feed 
upon  their  own  hearts,  and  their  own  hearts  are  very  bad  feeding.  Now,  sir,  about 
that  brain  of  yours,  if  you  '11  excuse  my  returning  to  it.  Don't  you  expose  it  to  a 
good  deal  of  excitement,  sir  ?  ' 

I  found  it  not  difficult,  in  the  excitement  of  Mr.  Chillip's  own  brain,  under  his 
potations  of  negus,  to  divert  his  attention  from  this  topic  to  his  own  affairs,  on  which, 
for  the  next  half-hour,  he  was  quite  loquacious  ;  giving  me  to  understand,  among 
other  pieces  of  information,  that  he  was  then  at  the  Gray's  Inn  Coffee-house  to  lay 
his  professional  evidence  before  a  Commission  of  Lunacy,  touching  the  state  of  mind 
of  a  patient  who  had  become  deranged  from  excessive  drinking. 

'  And  I  assure  you,  sir,'  he  said,  '  I  am  extremely  nervous  on  such  occasions.  I 
could  not  support  being  what  is  called  Bullied,  sir.  It  would  quite  unman  me.  Do 
you  know  it  was  some  time  before  I  recovered  the  conduct  of  that  alarming  lady,  on 
the  night  of  your  birth,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?  ' 

I  told  him  that  I  was  going  down  to  my  aunt,  the  Dragon  of  that  night,  early  in 
the  morning ;  and  that  she  was  one  of  the  most  tender-hearted  and  excellent  of  women, 
as  he  would  know  full  well  if  he  knew  her  better.  The  mere  notion  of  the  possibility 
of  his  ever  seeing  her  again,  appeared  to  terrify  him.     He  replied  with  a  small  pale 


AGNES  545 

smile,  '  Is  she  so,  indeed,  sir  ?  Really  Y  '  and  alnu^st  immediately  called  for  a  eandle, 
and  went  to  bed,  as  if  he  wc.vi:  not  i|iiite  safe  anywhere  else.  He  did  not  actually 
stagger  under  the  negus  ;  huL  1  should  think  his  plaeid  little  pulse  rimst  have  made 
two  or  three  more  beats  in  u  minute,  Ihiiii  it  had  done  sinec  the  great  night  of  my 
aunt's  disappointment,  when  she  struck  at  him  with  her  bonnet. 

Thoroughly  tired,  I  went  to  bed  too,  at  midnight  ;  passed  the  next  day  on  the 
Dover  coach  ;  burst  safe  and  sound  into  my  aunt's  old  parlour  while  she  was  at 
tea  (she  wore  spectacles  now) ;  and  was  received  by  her,  and  Mr.  Dick,  and  dear  old 
Peggotty,  who  acted  as  housekeeper,  with  open  arms  and  tears  of  joy.  My  aunt  was 
mightily  amused,  when  we  began  to  talk  composedly,  by  my  account  of  my  meeting 
with  Mr.  Chillip,  and  of  his  holding  her  in  such  dread  remembrance  ;  and  Ijoth  she 
and  Peggotty  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  my  poor  mother's  second  husband,  and 
'  that  murdering  woman  of  a  sister,' — on  whom  I  think  no  pain  or  penalty  would  have 
induced  my  aunt  to  bestow  any  Christian  or  Proper  Name,  or  any  other  designation. 


CHAPTER    LX 

AGNES 

MY  aunt  and  I,  when  we  were  left  alone,  talked  far  into  the  night.  IIow 
the  emigrants  never  wrote  home,  otherwise  than  cheerfully  and  hope- 
fully ;  how  Mr.  Mieawber  had  actually  remitted  divers  small  sums  of 
money,  on  account  of  those  '  pecuniary  liabilities,'  in  reference  to  which 
he  had  been  so  business-like  as  between  man  and  man  ;  how  Janet,  returning  into 
my  aunt's  service  when  she  came  back  to  Dover,  had  finally  carried  out  her 
renunciation  of  mankind  by  entering  into  wedlock  with  a  thriving  tavern-keeper  ; 
and  how  my  aunt  had  finally  set  her  seal  on  the  same  great  principle,  by  aiding  and 
abetting  the  bride,  and  crowning  the  marriage-ceremony  with  her  presence  ;  were 
among  our  topics — already  more  or  less  familiar  to  me  through  the  letters  I  had  had. 
Mr.  Dick,  as  usual,  was  not  forgotten.  My  aunt  informed  me  how  he  incessantly 
occupied  himself  in  copying  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  and  kept  King 
Charles  the  First  at  a  respectful  distance  by  that  semblance  of  employment ;  how  it 
was  one  of  the  main  joys  and  rewards  of  her  life  that  he  was  free  and  happy,  instead 
of  pining  in  monotonous  restraint ;  and  how  (as  a  novel  general  conclusion)  nobody 
but  she  could  ever  fully  know  what  he  was. 

'  And  when,  Trot,'  said  my  aunt,  patting  the  back  of  my  hand,  as  we  sat  in  our 
old  way  before  the  fire,  '  when  are  you  going  over  to  Canterbury  ?  ' 

'  I  shall  get  a  horse,  and  ride  over  to-morrow  moi-ning,  aunt,  unless  you  will  go 
with  me  ?  ' 

'  No  !  '    said  my  aunt,  in  her  short  abrupt  way.     '  I  mean  to  stay  where  I  am.' 

Then,  I  should  ride,  I  said.  I  could  not  have  come  through  Canterbury  to-day 
without  stopping,  if  I  had  been  coming  to  any  one  but  her. 

She  was  pleased,  but  answered,  '  Tut,  Trot :  7ny  old  bones  would  have  kept  till 
to-morrow  !  '  and  softly  patted  my  hand  again,  as  I  sat  looking  thoughtfully  at  the 
fire. 

Thoughtfully,  for  I  could  not  be  here  once  more,  and  so  near  Agnes,  without  the 

s 


546  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

revival  of  those  regrets  with  whicli  I  had  so  long  been  occupied.  Softened  regrets 
they  might  be,  teaching  me  what  I  had  failed  to  learn  when  my  younger  life  was  all 
before  me,  but  not  the  less  regrets.  '  Oh,  Trot,'  I  seemed  to  hear  my  aunt  say  once 
more  ;   and  I  understood  her  better  now — '  Blind,  blind,  bhnd  !  ' 

We  both  kept  silence  for  some  minutes.  When  I  raised  my  eyes,  I  found  that 
she  was  steadily  observant  of  me.  Perhaps  she  had  followed  the  current  of  my  mind ; 
for  it  seemed  to  me  an  easy  one  to  track  now,  wilful  as  it  had  been  once. 

'  You  will  find  her  father  a  white-haired  old  man,'  said  my  aunt,  '  though  a  better 
man  in  all  other  respects — a  reclaimed  man.  Neither  will  you  find  him  measuring 
all  human  interests,  and  joys,  and  sorrows,  with  his  one  poor  little  inch-rule  now. 
Trust  me,  child,  such  things  must  shrink  very  much,  before  they  can  be  measured  off 
in  that  way.' 

'  Indeed  they  must,'  said  I. 

'  You  will  find  her,'  pursued  my  aunt,  '  as  good,  as  beautiful,  as  earnest,  as  dis- 
interested, as  she  has  always  been.  If  I  knew  higher  praise.  Trot,  I  would  bestow 
it  on  her.' 

There  was  no  higher  praise  for  her  ;  no  higher  reproach  for  me.  Oh,  how  had 
I  strayed  so  far  away  ? 

'  If  she  trains  the  young  girls  whom  she  has  about  her,  to  be  like  herself,'  said  my 
aunt,  earnest  even  to  the  filling  of  her  eyes  with  tears,  '  Heaven  knows,  her  life 
will  be  well  employed  !  Useful  and  happy,  as  she  said  that  day  !  How  could  she 
be  otherwise  than  useful  and  happy  !  ' 

'  Has  Agnes  any '  I  was  thinking  aloud,  rather  than  speaking. 

'  Well  ?     Hey  ?     Any  what  ?  '   said  my  aunt,  sharply. 

'  Any  lover,'  said  I. 

'  A  score,'  cried  my  aunt,  with  a  kind  of  indignant  pride.  '  She  might  have 
married  twenty  times,  my  dear,  since  you  have  been  gone  !  ' 

'  No  doubt,'  said  I.  '  No  doubt.  But  has  she  any  lover  who  is  worthy  of  her  ? 
Agnes  could  care  for  no  other.' 

My  aunt  sat  musing  for  a  little  while,  with  her  chin  upon  her  hand.  Slowly 
raising  her  eyes  to  mine,  she  said — 

'  I  suspect  she  has  an  attachment,  Trot.' 

'  A  prosperous  one  ?  '    said  I. 

'  Trot,'  returned  my  aunt  gravely,  '  I  can't  say.  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you  even 
so  much.     She  has  never  confided  it  to  me,  but  I  suspect  it.' 

She  looked  so  attentively  and  anxiously  at  me  (I  even  saw  her  tremble),  that  I 
felt  now,  more  than  ever,  that  she  had  followed  my  late  thoughts.  I  summoned  all 
the  resolutions  I  had  made,  in  all  those  many  days  and  nights,  and  all  those  many 
conflicts  of  my  heart. 

'  If  it  should  be  so,'  I  began,  '  and  I  hope  it  is ' 

'  I  don't  know  that  it  is,'  said  my  aunt  curtly.  '  You  must  not  be  ruled  by  my 
suspicions.  You  must  keep  them  secret.  They  are  very  slight,  perhaps.  I  have 
no  right  to  speak.' 

'  If  it  should  be  so,'  I  repeated,  '  Agnes  will  tell  me  at  her  own  good  time.  A 
sister  to  whom  I  have  confided  so  much,  aunt,  will  not  be  reluctant  to  confide 
in  me.' 

My  aunt  withdrew  her  eyes  from  mine,  as  slowly  as  she  had  turned  them  upon 
mc  ;    and  covered  them  thoughtfully  with  her  hand.     By  and  by  she  put  her  other 


AGNES  547 

hand  on  my  shoulder  ;  and  so  wc  both  sat,  looking  into  the  past,  without  saying 
another  word,  until  we  parted  for  the  night. 

I  rode  away,  early  in  I  ho  rnoriiiiifj,  for  the  seciic  of  my  old  school-days.  I  cannot 
say  that  I  was  yet  quite  ha[)py,  in  the  hojjc  that  I  was  gaining  a  vict(jry  over  myself ; 
even  in  the  prospeet  of  so  soon  looking  on  lier  face  again. 

The  well-rememhcred  ground  was  soon  traversed,  and  I  came  into  the  quiet 
streets,  where  every  stone  was  a  hoy's  book  to  me.  I  went  on  foot  to  the  old  house, 
and  went  away  with  a  heart  too  full  to  enter.  I  returned  ;  and  Ifjoking,  as  I  passed, 
through  the  low  window  of  the  turret-room  where  first  Uriah  Ileep,  and  afterwards 
Mr.  Mieawber,  had  been  wont  to  sit,  saw  that  it  was  a  little  parlour  now,  and  that 
there  was  no  odice.  Otherwise  the  staid  old  house  was,  as  to  its  cleanliness  and  order, 
still  just  as  it  had  been  when  I  first  saw  it.  I  requested  the  new  maid  wlio  admitted 
nic,  to  tell  Miss  Wickficld  that  a  gentleman  who  waited  on  her  from  a  friend  abroad, 
was  there  ;  and  I  was  shown  up  the  grave  old  staircase  (cautioned  of  the  steps  I  knew 
so  well),  into  the  unchanged  drawing-room.  The  books  that  Agnes  and  I  had  read 
together,  were  on  their  shelves  ;  and  the  desk  where  I  had  laboured  at  my  lessons, 
many  a  night,  stood  yet  at  the  same  old  corner  of  the  table.  All  the  little  changes 
that  had  crept  in  when  the  Heeps  were  there,  were  changed  again.  Everything  was 
as  it  used  to  be,  in  the  happy  time. 

I  stood  in  the  window,  and  looked  across  the  ancient  street  at  the  opposite  houses, 
recalling  how  I  had  watched  them  on  wet  afternoons,  when  I  first  came  there  ;  and 
how  I  had  used  to  speculate  about  the  people  who  appeared  at  any  of  the  windows, 
and  had  followed  them  with  my  eyes  up  and  down  stairs,  while  women  went  clicking 
along  the  pavement  in  pattens,  and  the  dull  rain  fell  in  slanting  lines,  and  poured 
out  of  the  waterspout  yonder,  and  flowed  into  the  road.  The  feeling  with  which  I 
used  to  watch  the  tramps,  as  they  came  into  the  town  on  those  wet  evenings,  at  dusk, 
and  limped  past,  with  their  bundles  drooping  over  their  shoulders  at  the  ends  of 
sticks,  came  freshly  back  to  me  ;  fraught,  as  then,  with  the  smell  of  damp  earth,  and 
wet  leaves  and  briar,  and  the  sensation  of  the  very  airs  that  blew  upon  me  in  my 
own  toilsome  journey. 

The  opening  of  the  little  door  in  the  panelled  wall  made  me  start  and  turn.  Her 
beautiful  serene  eyes  met  mine  as  she  came  towards  me.  She  stopped  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  bosom,  and  I  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

'  Agnes  !   my  dear  girl  !     I  have  come  too  suddenly  upon  you.' 

'  No,  no  !     I  am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you.  Trot  wood  I  ' 

'  Dear  Agnes,  the  happiness  it  is  to  me,  to  see  you  once  again  !  ' 

I  folded  her  to  my  heart,  and  for  a  little  while,  we  were  both  silent.  Presently 
we  sat  down,  side  by  side  ;  and  her  angel-faee  was  turned  upon  me  with  the  welcome 
I  had  dreamed  of,  waking  and  sleeping,  for  whole  years. 

She  was  so  true,  she  was  so  beautiful,  she  was  so  good, — I  owed  her  so  much 
gratitude,  she  was  so  dear  to  me,  that  I  could  find  no  utterance  for  what  I  felt.  I 
tried  to  bless  her,  tried  to  thank  her,  tried  to  tell  her  (as  I  had  often  done  in  letters) 
what  an  influence  she  had  upon  me  ;  but  all  my  efforts  were  in  vain.  My  love  and 
joy  were  dumb. 

With  her  own  sweet  tranquillity,  she  calmed  my  agitation  ;  led  me  back  to  the 
time  of  our  parting  ;  spoke  to  me  of  Emily,  whom  she  had  visited,  in  secret,  many 
times  ;  spoke  to  me  tenderly  of  Dora's  grave.  With  the  unerring  instinct  of  her 
noble  heart,  she  touched  chords  of  my  memory  so  softly  and  harmoniously,  that  not 


548  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

one  jarred  within  me  ;  I  could  listen  to  the  sorrowful,  distant  music,  and  desire  to 
shrink  from  nothing  it  awoke.  How  could  T  when,  blended  with  it  all,  was  her  dear 
self,  the  better  angel  of  my  life  ? 

'  And  you,  Agnes,'  I  said,  by  and  by.  '  Tell  me  of  yourself.  You  have  hardly 
ever  told  me  of  your  own  life,  in  all  this  lapse  of  time  !  ' 

'  What  should  I  tell  ?  '  she  answered,  with  her  radiant  smile.  '  Papa  is  well. 
You  see  us  here,  quiet  in  our  own  home  ;  our  anxieties  set  at  rest,  our  home  restored 
to  us  :   and  knowing  that,  dear  Trotwood,  you  know  all.' 

'  All,  Agnes  ?  '  said  I. 

She  looked  at  me,  with  some  fluttering  wonder  in  her  face. 

'  Is  there  nothing  else,  sister  ?  '  I  said. 

Her  colour,  which  had  just  now  faded,  returned,  and  faded  again.  She  smiled  ; 
with  a  quiet  sadness,  I  thought ;   and  shook  her  head. 

I  had  sought  to  lead  her  to  what  my  aunt  had  hinted  at  ;  for,  sharply  painful 
to  me  as  it  must  be  to  receive  that  confidence,  I  was  to  discipline  my  heart,  and  do 
my  duty  to  her.     I  saw,  however,  that  she  was  uneasy,  and  I  let  it  pass. 

'  You  have  much  to  do,  dear  Agnes  ?  ' 

'  With  my  school  ?  '  said  she,  looking  up  again,  in  all  her  bright  composure. 

'  Yes.     It  is  laborious,  is  it  not  ?  ' 

'  The  labour  is  so  pleasant,'  she  returned,  '  that  it  is  scarcely  grateful  in  me  to 
call  it  by  that  name.' 

'  Nothing  good  is  difficult  to  you,'  said  I. 

Her  colour  came  and  went  once  more  ;  and  once  more,  as  she  bent  her  head,  I 
saw  the  same  sad  smile. 

'  You  will  wait  and  see  papa,'  said  Agnes,  cheerfully,  '  and  pass  the  day  with  us  ? 
Perhaps  you  will  sleep  in  your  own  room  ?     We  always  call  it  yours.' 

I  could  not  do  that,  having  promised  to  ride  back  to  my  aunt's,  at  night ;  but 
I  would  pass  the  day  there,  joyfully. 

'  I  must  be  a  prisoner  for  a  little  while,'  said  Agnes,  '  but  here  are  the  old  books, 
Trotwood,  and  the  old  music' 

'  Even  the  old  flowers  are  here,'  said  I,  looking  round  ;   '  or  the  old  kinds.' 

'  I  have  found  a  pleasure,'  returned  Agnes,  smiling,  '  while  you  have  been  absent, 
in  keeping  everything  as  it  used  to  be  when  we  were  children.  For  we  were  very  happy 
then,  I  think.' 

'  Heaven  knows  we  were  ! '  said  I. 

'  And  every  little  thing  that  has  reminded  me  of  my  brother,'  said  Agnes,  with 
her  cordial  eyes  turned  cheerfully  upon  me,  '  has  been  a  welcome  companion.  Even 
this,'  showing  me  the  basket-trifle,  full  of  keys,  still  hanging  at  her  side,  '  seems  to 
jingle  a  kind  of  old  tune  !  ' 

She  smiled  again,  and  went  out  at  the  door  by  which  she  had  come. 

It  was  for  me  to  guard  this  sisterly  affection  with  religious  care.  It  was  all  that 
I  had  left  myself,  and  it  was  a  treasure.  If  I  once  shook  the  foundations  of  the  sacred 
confidence  and  usage,  in  virtue  of  which  it  was  given  to  me,  it  was  lost,  and  could 
never  be  recovered.  I  set  this  steadily  before  myself.  The  better  I  loved  her,  the 
more  it  behoved  me  never  to  forget  it. 

I  walked  through  the  streets  ;  and,  once  more  seeing  my  old  adversary  the  butcher 
— now  a  constable,  with  his  staff  hanging  up  in  the  shop — went  down  to  look  at  the 
place  where  I  had  fought  him  ;   and  there  meditated  on  Miss  Shepherd  and  the  eldest 


AGNIvS  rAu 

Miss  Larkins,  and  all  the  idle  loves  and  likiiif^s,  and  dislikinj^s,  of  IhaL  time.  Nothing 
seemed  to  have  survived  that  time  l)ut  Apncs  ;  and  she,  ever  a  star  above  rne,  was 
brighter  and  liif^hcr. 

When  I  returned,  Mr.  Wiekfield  liad  eome  home,  from  a  garden  he  had,  a  couple 
of  miles  or  so  out  of  town,  where  he  now  employed  himself  almost  every  day.  I 
found  him  as  my  aunt  had  described  him.  We  sat  down  to  dinner,  with  some 
half-dozen  little  f,'irls  ;  .ind  he  seemed  IjuI  I  Ik;  shadow  of  liis  handsome  picture  on 
the  wall. 

The  tranquillity  and  peace  belonging,  of  old,  to  that  quiet  grounfl  in  my  memory, 
pervaded  it  again.  When  dinner  was  done,  Mr.  Wiekfield  taking  no  wine,  and  I 
desiring  none,  we  went  upstairs  ;  where  Agnes  and  her  little  charges  sang  and  played, 
and  worked.  After  tea  the  children  left  us  ;  and  we  three  sat  together,  talking  of  the 
bygone  days. 

'  My  part  in  them,'  said  Mr.  Wiekfield,  shaking  his  white  head,  '  has  much  matter 
for  regret — for  deep  regret,  and  deep  contrition,  Trotwood,  you  well  know.  But  I 
would  not  cancel  it,  if  it  were  in  my  power.' 

I  could  readily  believe  that,  looking  at  the  face  beside  him. 

'  I  should  cancel  with  it,'  he  pursued,  '  such  patience  and  devotion,  such  fidelity, 
such  a  child's  love,  as  I  must  not  forget,  no  !   even  to  forget  myself.' 

'  I  understand  you,  sir,'  I  softly  said.  '  T  hold  it — I  have  always  held  it — in 
veneration.' 

'  But  no  one  knows,  not  even  you,'  he  returned,  '  how  much  she  has  done,  how 
much  she  has  undergone,  how  hard  she  has  striven.     Dear  Agnes  !  ' 

She  had  put  her  hand  entreatingly  on  his  arm,  to  stop  him  ;  and  was  very,  very 
pale. 

'  Well,  well ! '  he  said  with  a  sigh,  dismissing,  as  I  then  saw,  some  trial  she  had 
borne,  or  was  yet  to  bear,  in  connection  with  what  my  aunt  had  told  me.     '  Well  ! 
I  have  never  told  you,  Trotwood,  of  her  mother.     Has  any  one  ?  ' 
'  Never,  sir.' 

'  It 's  not  much — though  it  was  much  to  suffer.  She  married  me  in  opposition 
to  her  father's  wish,  and  he  renounced  her.  She  prayed  him  to  forgive  her,  before  m\- 
Agnes  came  into  this  world.  He  was  a  very  hard  man,  and  her  mother  had  long  been 
dead.     He  repulsed  her.     He  broke  her  heart.' 

Agnes  leaned  upon  his  shoulder,  and  stole  her  arm  about  his  neck. 
'  She  had  an  affectionate  and  gentle  heart,'  he  said  ;  '  and  it  was  broken.  I 
knew  its  tender  nature  very  well.  No  one  could,  if  I  did  not.  She  loved  me  dearly, 
but  was  never  happy.  She  was  always  labouring,  in  secret,  under  this  distress  ; 
and  being  delicate  and  downcast  at  the  time  of  his  last  repulse — for  it  was  not  the 
first,  by  many — pined  away  and  died.  She  left  me  Agnes,  two  weeks  old  ;  and  the 
grey  hair  that  you  recollect  me  with,  when  you  first  came.' 
He  kissed  Agnes  on  her  cheek. 

'  My  love  for  my  dear  child  was  a  diseased  love,  but  my  mind  was  all  unhealthy 
then.  I  say  no  more  of  that.  I  am  not  speaking  of  myself,  Trotwood,  but  of  her 
mother,  and  of  her.  If  I  give  you  any  clue  to  what  I  am,  or  to  what  I  have  been,  you 
will  unravel  it,  I  know.  What  Agnes  is,  I  need  not  say.  I  have  always  read  something 
of  her  poor  mother's  story,  in  her  character  ;  and  so  I  tell  it  you  to-night,  when  we 
three  are  again  together,  after  such  great  changes.     I  have  told  it  all.' 

His  bowed  head,  and  her  angel  face  and  filial  duty,  derived  a  more  pathetic 


550  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

meaning  from  it  than  they  had  had  before.  If  I  had  wanted  anything  by  which  to 
mark  this  night  of  our  re-union,  I  should  have  found  it  in  this. 

Agnes  rose  up  from  her  father's  side,  before  long  ;  and  going  softly  to  her  piano, 
played  some  of  the  old  airs  to  which  we  had  often  listened  in  that  place. 

'  Have  you  any  intention  of  going  away  again  ?  '  Agnes  asked  me,  as  I  was 
standing  by. 

'  What  does  my  sister  say  to  that  ?  ' 

'  I  hope  not.' 

■  Then  I  have  no  such  intention,  Agnes.' 

'  I  think  you  ought  not,  Trotwood,  since  you  ask  me,'  she  said,  mildly.  '  Your 
growing  reputation  and  success  enlarge  your  power  of  doing  good  ;  and  if  /  could  spare 
my  brother,'  with  her  eyes  upon  me,  '  jDerhaps  the  time  could  not.' 

'  What  I  am,  you  have  made  me,  Agnes.     You  should  know  best.' 

'  /  made  you,  Trotwood  ?  ' 

'  Yes  !  Agnes,  my  dear  girl  !  '  I  said,  bending  over  her.  '  I  tried  to  tell  you, 
when  we  met  to-day,  something  that  has  been  in  my  thoughts  since  Dora  died.  You 
remember,  when  you  came  down  to  me  in  our  little  room — pointing  upward,  Agnes  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  Trotwood  !  '  she  returned,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  '  So  loving,  so  confiding, 
and  so  young  !     Can  I  ever  forget  ?  ' 

'  As  you  were  then,  my  sister,  I  have  often  thought  since,  you  have  ever  been 
to  me.  Ever  pointing  upward,  Agnes  ;  ever  leading  me  to  something  better  ;  ever 
directing  me  to  higher  things  !  ' 

She  only  shook  her  head  ;   through  the  tears  I  saw  the  same  sad  quiet  smile. 

'  And  I  am  so  grateful  to  you  for  it,  Agnes,  so  bound  to  you,  that  there  is  no 
name  for  the  affection  of  my  heart.  I  want  you  to  know,  yet  don't  know  how  to  tell 
you,  that  all  my  life  long  I  shall  look  up  to  you,  and  be  guided  by  you,  as  I  have  been 
through  the  darkness  that  is  past.  Whatever  betides,  whatever  new  ties  you  may 
form,  whatever  changes  may  come  between  us,  I  shall  always  look  to  you,  and  love 
you,  as  I  do  now,  and  have  always  done.  You  will  always  be  my  solace  and  resource 
as  you  have  always  been.  Until  I  die,  my  dearest  sister,  I  shall  see  you  always  before 
me,  pointing  upward  !  ' 

She  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  told  me  she  was  proud  of  me,  and  of  what  I  said  ; 
although  I  praised  her  very  far  beyond  her  worth.  Then  she  went  on  softly  playing, 
but  without  removing  her  eyes  from  me. 

'  Do  you  know,  what  I  have  heard  to-night,  Agnes,'  said  I,  '  strangely  seems  to 
be  a  part  of  the  feeling  with  which  I  regarded  j^ou  when  I  saw  you  first — with  which  I 
sat  beside  you  in  my  rough  school-days  ?  ' 

'  You  knew  I  had  no  mother,'  she  replied  with  a  smile, '  and  felt  kindly  towards  me.' 

'  More  than  that,  Agnes,  I  knew,  almost  as  if  I  had  known  this  story,  that  there 
was  something  inexplicably  gentle  and  softened,  surrounding  you  ;  something  that 
might  have  been  sorroAvful  in  some  one  else  (as  I  can  now  understand  it  was),  but 
was  not  so  in  you.' 

She  softly  played  on,  looking  at  me  still. 

'  Will  you  laugh  at  my  cherishing  such  fancies,  Agnes  ?  ' 

'No!' 

'  Or  at  my  saying  that  I  really  believe  I  felt,  even  then,  that  you  could  be  faithfully 
affectionate  against  all  discouragement,  and  never  cease  to  be  so,  until  you  ceased  to 
live  ? — Will  you  laugh  at  such  a  dream  ?  ' 


T  AM  SHOWN  TWO   INTJ:Ri:STrN(J    PKNTTKNTS      wi 

'  Oh  no  !     Oh  no  !  • 

For  an  instant,  a  distressful  shadow  crossed  her  face  ;  hut,  even  in  the  start  it 
gave  me,  it  was  gone  ;  and  she  was  playing  on,  and  l()f)ki(if,'  ;il  rne  with  her  own  calm 
smile. 

As  I  rode  back  in  the  lonely  night,  the  wind  going  liy  me  like  a  restless  memory, 
1  thought  of  this,  and  feared  she  was  not  haf)|)y.  /  was  not  happy  ;  hut,  thus  far,  I 
had  faithfully  set  the  seal  upon  the  Past,  and,  thinking  of  her,  p(Miitiiig  U[)w.ird,  thought 
of  her  as  pointing  to  that  sky  above  me,  where,  in  the  mystery  to  come,  I  might  yet 
love  her  with  a  love  unknown  on  earth,  and  tell  her  what  the  strife  had  been  within  me 
when  I  loved  her  here. 


CHAPTER    LXI 

I    AM    SHOWN    TWO    INTERESTING    I'ENITENTS 

FOR  a  time — at  all  events  until  my  book  should  be  completed,  which  would 
he  the  work  of  several  months — I  took  up  my  abode  in  my  aunt's  house 
at  Dover  ;  and  there,  sitting  in  the  window  from  which  I  had  looked  out 
at  the  moon  upon  the  sea,  when  that  roof  first  gave  me  shelter,  I  quietly 
pursued  my  task. 

In  pursuance  of  my  intention  of  referring  to  my  own  fictions  only  when  their 
course  should  incidentally  connect  itself  with  the  progress  of  my  story,  I  do  not  enter 
on  the  aspirations,  the  delights,  anxieties,  and  truimphs  of  my  art.  That  I  truly 
devoted  myself  to  it  with  my  strongest  earnestness,  and  bestowed  upon  it  every  energy' 
of  my  soul,  I  have  already  said.  If  the  books  I  have  written  be  of  any  worth,  they  will 
supply  the  rest.  I  shall  otherwise  have  written  to  poor  purpose,  and  the  rest  will  be 
of  interest  to  no  one. 

Occasionally  I  went  to  London  ;  to  lose  myself  in  the  swarm  of  life  there,  or  to 
consult  with  Traddles  on  some  business  point.  He  had  managed  for  me,  in  my  absence, 
with  the  soundest  judgment ;  and  my  worldly  affairs  were  prospering.  As  my  notoriety 
began  to  bring  upon  me  an  enormous  quantity  of  letters  from  people  of  whom  I  had 
no  knowledge — chiefly  about  nothing,  and  extremely  diflicult  to  answer — I  agreed 
with  Traddles  to  have  my  name  painted  up  on  his  door.  There,  the  devoted  postman 
on  that  beat  delivered  bushels  of  letters  for  me  ;  and  there,  at  intervals,  I  laboured 
through  them,  like  a  Home  Secretary  of  State  without  the  salarj'. 

Among  this  correspondence,  there  dropped  in,  every  now  and  then,  an  obliging 
proposal  from  one  of  the  numerous  outsiders  always  lurking  about  the  Commons, 
to  practice  under  cover  of  my  name  (if  I  would  take  the  necessary  steps  remaining  to 
make  a  proctor  of  myself),  and  pay  me  a  percentage  on  the  profits.  But  I  declined 
these  offers  ;  being  already  aware  that  there  were  plenty  of  such  covert  practitioners  in 
existence,  and  considering  the  Commons  quite  bad  enough,  without  my  doing  anything 
to  make  it  worse. 

The  girls  had  gone  home,  when  my  name  burst  into  bloom  on  Traddles's  door  ; 
and  the  sharp  boy  looked,  all  day,  as  if  he  had  never  heard  of  Sophy,  shut  up  in  a 
back-room,  glancing  down  from  her  work  into  a  sooty  little  strip  of  garden  with  a  pump 
in  it.     But,  there  I  always  found  her,  the  same  bright  housewife  ;   often  humming  her 


552  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Devonshire  ballads  when  no  strange  foot  was  coming  up  the  stairs,  and  blunting  the 
sharp  boy  in  his  official  closet  with  melody. 

I  wondered,  at  first,  why  I  so  often  found  Sophy  writing  in  a  copy-book  ;  and 
why  she  always  shut  it  up  when  I  appeared,  and  hurried  it  into  the  table-drawer.  But 
the  secret  soon  came  out.  One  day,  Traddles  (who  had  just  come  home  through  the 
drizzling  sleet  from  Court)  took  a  paper  out  of  his  desk,  and  asked  me  what  I  thought 
of  that  handwriting  ? 

'  Oh,  don't,  Tom  !  '  cried  Sophy,  who  was  warming  his  slippers  before  the  fire. 

'  My  dear,'  returned  Tom,  in  a  delighted  state,  '  why  not  ?  What  do  you  say  to 
that  writing,  Copperfield  ?  ' 

'  It 's  extraordinarily  legal  and  formal,'  said  I.  '  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  such  a 
stiff  hand.' 

'  Not  like  a  lady's  hand,  is  it  ?  '  said  Traddles. 

'  A  lady's  !  '  I  repeated.     '  Bricks  and  mortar  are  more  like  a  lady's  hand  !  ' 

Traddles  broke  into  a  rapturous  laugh,  and  informed  me  that  it  was  Sophy's 
writing  ;  that  Sophy  had  vowed  and  declared  he  would  need  a  copying-clerk  soon, 
and  she  would  be  that  clerk  ;  that  she  had  acquired  this  hand  from  a  pattern  ;  and 
that  she  could  throw  off — I  forget  how  many  folios  an  hour.  Sophy  was  very  much 
confused  by  my  being  told  all  this,  and  said  that  when  '  Tom  '  was  made  a  judge  he 
wouldn't  be  so  ready  to  proclaim  it.  Which  '  Tom  '  denied  ;  averring  that  he  should 
always  be  equally  proud  of  it,  under  all  circumstances. 

'  What  a  thoroughly  good  and  charming  wife  she  is,  my  dear  Traddles  !  '  said  I, 
when  she  had  gone  away,  laughing. 

'  My  dear  Copperfield,'  returned  Traddles,  '  she  is,  without  any  exception,  the 
dearest  girl  !  The  way  she  manages  this  place  ;  her  punctuality,  domestic  knowledge, 
economy,  and  order  ;    her  cheerfulness,  Copperfield  !  ' 

'  Indeed,  you  have  reason  to  commend  her  !  '  I  returned.  '  You  are  a  happy 
fellow.  I  believe  you  make  yourselves,  and  each  other,  two  of  the  happiest  people  in 
the  world.' 

'  I  am  sure  we  are  two  of  the  happiest  people,'  returned  Traddles.  '  I  admit 
that,  at  all  events.  Bless  my  soul,  when  I  see  her  getting  up  by  candle-light  on  these 
dark  mornings,  busying  herself  in  the  day's  arrangements,  going  out  to  market  before 
the  clerks  come  into  the  Inn,  caring  for  no  weather,  devising  the  most  capital  little 
dinners,  out  of  the  plainest  materials,  making  puddings  and  pies,  keeping  everything 
in  its  right  place,  always  so  neat  and  ornamental  herself,  sitting  up  at  night  with  me 
if  it 's  ever  so  late,  sweet-tempered  and  encouraging  always,  and  all  for  me,  I  positively 
sometimes  can't  believe  it,  Copperfield  !  ' 

He  was  tender  of  the  very  slippers  she  had  been  warming,  as  he  put  them  on,  and 
stretched  his  feet  enjoyingly  upon  the  fender. 

'  I  positively  sometimes  can't  believe  it,'  said  Traddles.  '  Then,  ovir  pleasures  ! 
Dear  me,  they  are  inexpensive,  but  they  are  quite  wonderful  !  When  we  are  at  home 
here,  of  an  evening,  and  shut  the  outer  door,  and  draw  those  curtains — which  she 
made — where  could  we  be  more  snug  ?  When  it 's  fine,  and  we  go  out  for  a  walk  in 
the  evening,  the  streets  abound  in  enjoyment  for  us.  We  look  into  the  glittering 
windows  of  the  jeweller's  shops  ;  and  I  show  Sophy  which  of  the  diamond-eyed  serpents, 
coiled  up  on  white  satin  rising  grounds,  I  would  give  her  if  I  could  afford  it ;  and 
Sophy  shows  me  which  of  the  gold  watches  that  are  capped  and  jewelled  and  engine- 
turned,  and  possessed  of  the  horizontal  lever-escape-movement,  and  all  sorts  of  things, 


J    AM  SHOWN  TWO   INTKRKSTINO   PENITENTS      553 

she  would  buy  for  me  if  she  could  all  on  I  il  ;  and  we  piek  out  the  spoons  and  forks, 
fish-sHces,  butter-knives,  and  sugar-tongs,  we  should  both  prefer  if  we  could  both 
afford  it ;  and  really  we  go  away  as  if  we  had  got  them  !  Then,  when  we  stroll  into  the 
squares,  and  great  streets,  and  see  a  house  to  let,  sometimes  we  look  uj)  at  it,  and  say, 
how  would  that  do,  if  I  was  made  a  judge  V  And  we  parcel  it  out — such  a  room  for  us, 
such  rooms  for  the  girls,  and  so  forth  ;  until  we  settle  to  our  satisfaction  that  it  would 
do,  or  it  wouldn't  do,  as  the  case  may  be.  Sometimes,  we  go  at  half-price  to  the  pit  of 
the  theatre — the  very  smell  of  which  is  cheap,  in  my  opinion,  at  the  money — and 
there  we  thoroughly  enjoy  the  play  :  which  So[)hy  believes  every  word  of,  and  so  do 
I.  In  walking  home,  perhaps  we  buy  a  little  bit  of  something  at  a  eook's-shop,  or  a 
little  lobster  at  the  fishmonger's,  and  bring  it  here,  and  make  a  splendid  supper,  chatting 
about  what  we  have  seen.  Now,  you  know,  Copperfield,  if  I  was  Lord  Chancellor,  we 
couldn't  do  this  !  ' 

'  You  would  do  something,  whatever  you  were,  my  dear  Traddles,'  thought  I, 
'  that  would  be  pleasant  and  amiable  !  And  by  the  way,'  I  said  aloud,  '  I  suppose  you 
never  draw  any  skeletons  now  ?  ' 

'  Really,'  replied  Traddles,  laughing  and  reddening,  '  I  can't  wholly  deny  that  I 
do,  my  dear  Copperfield.  For,  being  in  one  of  the  back  rows  of  the  King's  Bench  the 
other  day,  with  a  pen  in  my  hand,  the  fancy  came  into  my  head  to  try  how  I  had 
preserved  that  accomplishment.  And  I  am  afraid  there  's  a  skeleton — in  a  wig — on 
the  ledge  of  the  desk.' 

After  we  had  both  laughed  heartily,  Traddles  wound  up  by  looking  with  a  smile 
at  the  fu-e,  and  saying,  in  his  forgiving  way,  '  Old  Creakle  !  ' 

'  I  have  a  letter  from  that  old — rascal  here,'  said  I.  For  I  never  was  less  disposed 
to  forgive  him  the  way  he  used  to  batter  Traddles,  than  when  I  saw  Traddles  so  ready 
to  forgive  him  himself. 

'  From  Creakle  the  schoolmaster  ?  '  exclaimed  Traddles.     '  No  !  ' 

'  Among  the  persons  who  are  attracted  to  me  in  my  rising  fame  and  fortune.' 
said  I,  looking  over  my  letters,  '  and  who  discover  that  they  were  always  much  attached 
to  me,  is  the  self-same  Creakle.  He  is  not  a  schoolmaster  now,  Traddles.  He  is 
retired.     He  is  a  Middlesex  magistrate.' 

I  thought  Traddles  might  he  surprised  to  hear  it,  but  he  was  not  so  at  all. 

'  How  do  you  suppose  he  comes  to  be  a  Middlesex  magistrate  ?  '  said  I. 

'  Oh  dear  me  !  '  replied  Traddles, '  it  would  be  very  diflicult  to  answer  that  question. 
Perhaps  he  voted  for  somebody,  or  lent  money  to  somebody,  or  bought  something  of 
somebody,  or  otherwise  obliged  somebody,  or  jobbed  for  somebody,  who  knew  some- 
body who  got  the  lieutenant  of  the  county  to  nominate  him  for  the  commission.' 

'  On  the  commission  he  is,  at  any  rate,'  said  I.  '  And  he  writes  to  me  here,  that 
he  will  be  glad  to  show  me,  in  operation,  the  only  true  system  of  prison  discipline  ; 
the  only  unchallengeable  way  of  making  sincere  and  lasting  converts  and  penitents — 
which,  you  know,  is  by  solitary  confinement,     ^^^lat  do  you  say  ?  ' 

'  To  the  system  ?  '  inquired  Traddles,  looking  grave. 

'  No.     To  my  accepting  the  offer,  and  your  going  with  me  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  object,'  said  Traddles. 

'  Then  T  '11  write  to  say  so.  You  remember  (to  say  nothing  of  our  treatment)  this 
same  Creakle  turning  his  son  out  of  doors,  I  suppose,  and  the  life  he  used  to  lead  his 
wife  and  daughter  ?  ' 

'  Perfeetlv,'  said  Traddles. 


554  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Yet,  if  you  '11  read  his  letter,  you  '11  find  he  is  the  tenderest  of  men  to  prisoners 
convicted  of  the  whole  calendar  of  felonies,'  said  I ;  '  though  I  can't  find  that  his 
tenderness  extends  to  anj'  other  class  of  created  beings.' 

Traddles  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  was  not  at  all  surprised.  I  had  not  expected 
him  to  be,  and  was  not  surprised  myself  ;  or  my  observation  of  similar  practical 
satires  would  have  been  but  scanty.  We  arranged  the  time  of  our  visit,  and  I  wrote 
accordingly  to  Mr.  Creakle  that  evening. 

On  the  appointed  day — I  think  it  was  the  next  day,  but  no  matter — Traddles 
and  I  repaired  to  the  prison  where  Mr.  Creakle  was  powerful.  It  was  an  immense 
and  solid  building,  erected  at  a  vast  expense.  I  could  not  help  thinking,  as  we 
approached  the  gate,  what  an  uproar  would  have  been  made  in  the  country,  if  any 
deluded  man  had  proposed  to  spend  one-half  the  money  it  had  cost,  on  the  erection 
of  an  industrial  school  for  the  young,  or  a  house  of  refuge  for  the  deserving  old. 

In  an  office  that  might  have  been  on  the  ground-floor  of  the  Tower  of  Babel,  it 
was  so  massively  constructed,  we  were  presented  to  our  old  schoolmaster ;  who  was 
one  of  a  group,  composed  of  two  or  three  of  the  busier  sort  of  magistrates,  and  some 
visitors  they  had  brought.  He  received  me,  like  a  man  who  had  formed  my  mind  in 
bygone  years,  and  had  always  loved  me  tenderly.  On  my  introducing  Traddles, 
Mr.  Creakle  expressed,  in  like  manner,  but  in  an  inferior  degree,  that  he  had  always 
been  Traddles's  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend.  Our  venerable  instructor  was  a  great 
deal  older,  and  not  improved  in  appearance.  His  face  was  as  fiery  as  ever  ;  his  eyes 
were  as  small,  and  rather  deeper  set.  The  scanty,  wet-looking  grey  hair,  by  which  I 
remembered  him,  Avas  almost  gone  ;  and  the  thick  veins  in  his  bald  head  were  none  the 
more  agreeable  to  look  at. 

After  some  conversation  among  these  gentlemen,  from  which  I  might  have 
supposed  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  be  legitimately  taken  into  account 
but  the  supreme  comfort  of  prisoners,  at  any  expense,  and  nothing  on  the  wide  earth 
to  be  done  outside  prison-doors,  we  began  our  inspection.  It  being  then  just  dinner- 
time, we  went,  first  into  the  great  kitchen,  where  every  prisoner's  dinner  was  in  course 
of  being  set  out  separately  (to  be  handed  to  him  in  his  cell),  with  the  regularity  and 
precision  of  clock-work.  I  said  aside,  to  Traddles,  that  I  wondered  whether  it  occurred 
to  anybody,  that  there  was  a  striking  contrast  between  these  plentiful  repasts  of 
choice  quality,  and  the  dinners,  not  to  say  of  paupers,  but  of  soldiers,  sailors,  labourers, 
the  great  bulk  of  the  honest,  working  community  ;  of  whom  not  one  man  in  five 
hundred  ever  dined  half  so  well.  But  I  learned  that  the  '  system  '  required  high  living  ; 
and,  in  short,  to  dispose  of  the  system,  once  for  all,  I  found  that  on  that  head 
and  on  all  others,  '  the  system  '  put  an  end  to  all  doubts,  and  disposed  of  all  anomalies. 
Nobody  appeared  to  have  the  least  idea  that  there  was  any  other  system,  but  the 
system,  to  be  considered. 

As  we  were  going  through  some  of  the  magnificent  passages,  I  inquired  of  Mr. 
Creakle  and  his  friends  what  were  supposed  to  be  the  main  advantages  of  this  all- 
governing  and  universally  overriding  system  ?  I  found  them  to  be  the  perfect  isolation 
of  prisoners— so  that  no  one  man  in  confinement  there,  knew  anything  about  another  ; 
and  the  reduction  of  prisoners  to  a  wholesome  state  of  mind,  leading  to  sincere  contrition 
and  repentance. 

Now,  it  struck  me,  when  we  began  to  visit  individuals  in  their  cells,  and  to  traverse 
the  passages  in  which  those  cells  were,  and  to  have  the  manner  of  the  going  to  chapel 
and  so  forth,  explained  to  us,  that  there  was  a  strong  probability  of  the  prisoners 


I  AM  SHOWN  TWO  iN'ri:iii':sriN(;  I'IOMTents    5.w 

knowing  a  good  deal  about  (•ach  oilier,  and  <jf  llicir  carrying  c.n  a  pretty  complete 
system  of  intercourse.  This,  at  the  time  I  write,  has  been  proved,  I  believe,  to  be  the 
case  ;  but,  as  it  would  have  been  flat  blasj)hcrriy  against  the  system  to  have  hinted 
such  a  doubt  then,  1  looked  out  for  the  jienitcncc  as  diligently  as  1  could. 

And  here  again,  I  had  great  misgivings.  I  found  as  prevalent  a  fashion  in  the 
form  of  the  penitence,  as  I  had  left  outside  in  the  forms  of  the  coats  and  waistcoats  in 
the  windows  of  the  tailors'  shops.  I  found  a  vast  amount  of  profession,  varying  very 
little  in  character  :  varying  very  little  (which  I  thought  exceedingly  suspicious)  even 
in  words.  I  found  a  great  many  foxes,  disparaging  whole  vineyards  of  inaccessible 
grapes  ;  hut  I  found  very  few  foxes  whom  I  would  have  trusted  within  reach  of  a 
bunch.  Above  all,  I  found  that  the  most  professing  men  were  the  greatest  objects 
of  interest :  and  that  their  conceil,  their  vanity,  their  want  of  excitement,  and  their 
love  of  deception  (which  many  of  them  possessed  to  an  almost  incredible  extent,  as 
their  histories  showed),  all  ])roinj)ted  to  these  professions,  and  were  all  gratified  by  them. 

However,  I  heard  so  repeatedly,  in  the  course  of  our  goings  to  and  fro,  of  a  certain 
Number  Twenty  Seven,  who  was  the  favourite,  and  who  really  appeared  to  Ijc  a  Model 
Prisoner,  that  I  resolved  to  suspend  my  judgment  until  I  should  see  Twenty  Seven. 
Twenty  Eight,  I  understood,  was  also  a  bright  particular  star  ;  but  it  was  his  mis- 
fortune to  have  his  glory  a  little  dimmed  by  the  extraordinary  lustre  of  Twenty  Seven. 
I  heard  so  much  of  Twenty  Seven,  of  his  pious  admonitions  to  everybody  around  hina, 
and  of  the  beautiful  letters  he  constantly  wrote  to  his  mother  (whom  he  seemed  to 
consider  in  a  very  bad  way),  that  I  became  quite  impatient  to  see  him. 

I  had  to  restrain  mj^  impatience  for  some  time,  on  account  of  Twenty  Seven 
being  reserved  for  a  concluding  effect.  But,  at  last,  we  came  to  the  door  of  his  cell  ; 
and  Mr.  Creakle,  looking  through  a  little  hole  in  it,  reported  to  us,  in  a  state  of  the 
greatest  admiration,  that  he  was  reading  a  ITymn  Book. 

There  was  such  a  rush  of  heads  immediately,  to  see  Number  Twenty  Seven  reading 
his  Hymn  Book,  that  the  little  hole  was  blocked  up,  six  or  seven  heads  deep.  To 
remedy  this  inconvenience,  and  give  us  an  opportunity  of  conversing  with  Twenty 
Seven  in  all  his  purity,  Mr.  Creakle  directed  the  door  of  the  cell  to  be  unlocked,  and 
Twenty  Seven  to  be  invited  out  into  the  passage.  This  was  done  ;  and  whom  should 
Traddles  and  I  then  behold,  to  our  amazement,  in  this  converted  Number  Twenty 
Seven,  but  Uriah  Keep  ! 

He  knew  us  directly  ;   and  said,  as  he  came  out — with  the  old  writhe — 

'  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?     How  do  you  do,  Jlr.  Traddles  ?  ' 

This  recognition  caused  a  general  admiration  in  the  party.  I  rather  thought 
that  every  one  was  struck  by  his  not  being  proud,  and  taking  notice  of  us. 

'  Well,  Twenty  Seven,'  said  Mr.  Creakle,  mournfully  admiring  him.  '  How  do 
you  find  yourself  to-day  ?  ' 

'  I  am  very  umble,  sir  !  '  replied  Uriah  Heep. 

'  You  are  always  so,  Twenty  Seven,'  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

Here,  another  gentleman  asked,  with  extreme  anxiety  :  '  Are  you  quite 
comfortable  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  thank  you,  sir  !  '  said  Uriah  Heep,  looking  in  that  direciton.  '  Far  more 
comfortable  here,  than  ever  I  was  outside.  I  see  my  follies  now.  sir.  That's  what 
makes  me  comfortable.' 

Several  gentlemen  were  much  affected  ;  and  a  third  questioner,  forcing  himself 
to  the  front,  inquired  with  extreme  feeling,  '  How  do  you  find  the  beef  ?  ' 


55G  DAYID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  replied  Uriah,  glancing  in  the  new  direction  of  this  voice,  '  it 
was  tougher  yesterday  than  I  could  wish  ;  but  it 's  my  duty  to  bear.  I  have  committed 
folHes,  gentlemen,'  said  Uriah,  looking  round  with  a  meek  smile,  '  and  I  ought  to  bear 
the  consequences  without  repining.' 

A  murmur,  partly  of  gratification  at  Twenty  Seven's  celestial  state  of  mind,  and 
partly  of  indignation  against  the  contractor  who  had  given  him  any  cause  of  complaint 
(a  note  of  which  was  immediately  made  by  Mr.  Creakle),  having  subsided,  Twenty  Seven 
stood  in  the  midst  of  us,  as  if  he  felt  himself  the  principal  object  of  merit  in  a  highly 
meritorious  museum.  That  we,  the  neophytes,  might  have  an  excess  of  light  shining 
upon  us  all  at  once,  orders  were  given  to  let  out  Twenty  Eight. 

I  had  been  so  much  astonished  already,  that  I  only  felt  a  kind  of  resigned  wonder 
when  ]Mr.  Littimer  walked  forth,  reading  a  good  book  ! 

'  Twenty  Eight,'  said  a  gentleman  in  spectacles,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  '  you 
complained  last  week,  my  good  fellow,  of  the  cocoa.     How  has  it  been  since  ?  ' 

'  I  thank  you,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Littimer,  '  it  has  been  better  made.  If  I  might 
take  the  liberty  of  saying  so,  sir,  I  don't  think  the  milk  which  is  boiled  with  it  is  quite 
genuine  ;  but  I  am  aware,  sir,  that  there  is  great  adulteration  of  milk,  in  London, 
and  that  the  article  in  a  pure  state  is  difficult  to  be  obtained.' 

It  appeared  to  me  that  the  gentleman  in  spectacles  backed  his  Twenty  Eight 
against  Mr.  Creakle's  Twenty  Seven,  for  each  of  them  took  his  own  man  in  hand. 

'  What  is  your  state  of  mind,  Twenty  Eight  ?  '  said  the  questioner  in  spectacles. 

'  I  thank  you,  sir,'  returned  Mr.  Littimer  ;  '  I  see  my  follies  now,  sir.  I  am  a 
good  deal  troubled  when  I  think  of  the  sins  of  my  former  companions,  sir  ;  but  I  trust 
they  may  find  forgiveness.' 

'  You  are  quite  happy  yourself  ?  '  said  the  questioner,  nodding  encouragement. 

'  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,'  returned  Mr.  Littimer.     '  Perfectly  so.' 

'  Is  there  anything  at  all  on  your  mind,  now  ?  '  said  the  questioner.  '  If  so, 
mention  it.  Twenty  Eight.' 

'  Sir,'  said  Mr.  Littimer,  without  looking  up,  '  if  my  eyes  have  not  deceived  me, 
there  is  a  gentleman  present  who  was  acquainted  with  me  in  my  former  life.  It  may 
be  profitable  to  that  gentleman  to  know,  sir,  that  I  attribute  my  past  follies,  entirely 
to  having  lived  a  thoughtless  life  in  the  service  of  young  men  ;  and  to  having  allowed 
myself  to  be  led  by  them  into  weaknesses,  which  I  had  not  the  strength  to  resist.  I 
hope  that  gentleman  will  take  warning,  sir,  and  will  not  be  offended  at  my  freedom. 
It  is  for  his  good.  I  am  conscious  of  my  own  past  follies.  I  hope  he  may  repent  of 
all  the  wickedness  and  sin,  to  which  he  has  been  a  party.' 

I  observed  that  several  gentlemen  were  shading  their  eyes,  each,  with  one  hand, 
as  if  they  had  just  come  into  church. 

'  This  does  you  credit,  Twenty  Eight,'  returned  the  questioner.  '  I  should  have 
expected  it  of  you.     Is  there  anything  else  ?  ' 

'  Sir,'  returned  Mr.  Littimer,  slightly  lifting  up  his  eyebrows,  but  not  his  eyes, 
'  there  was  a  young  woman  who  fell  into  dissolute  courses,  that  I  endeavoured  to  save, 
sir,  but  could  not  rescue.  I  beg  that  gentleman,  if  he  has  it  in  his  power,  to  inform 
that  young  woman  from  me  that  I  forgive  her  her  bad  conduct  towards  myself  ;  and 
that  I  call  her  to  repentance — if  he  will  be  so  good.' 

'  I  have  no  doubt.  Twenty  Eight,'  returned  the  questioner,  '  that  the  gentleman 
you  refer  to  feels  very  strongly — as  we  all  must — what  you  have  so  properly  said.  We 
will  not  detain  vou.' 


I  AM  SHOWN  TWO   INTKKKSTI  N(i   PEMTKNTS      5.57 

'  I  thank  you,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Littiiiicr.  '  (iciitlcnien,  I  wish  you  a  jjood  day,  and 
haj)inK  you  and  your  families  will  also  sec  your  wickedness,  and  amend  1  ' 

With  this,  Number  'J'wciily  lOifjht  retired,  aflcr  a  f,'laiicc  hotwecii  him  and  Uriah  ; 
as  if  they  were  not  aitogclhor  uiii<iiowii  to  cacli  other,  throu^ii  some  medium  of  com- 
munication ;  and  a  murmur  went  loiind  Ihe  group,  as  his  door  shut  upon  liim,  that 
he  was  a  most  respectable  man,  and  a  beautiful  case. 

'  Now,  Twenty  Seven,'  said  Mr.  Crcaklc,  entering  on  a  clear  stage  with  his  man, 
'  is  there  anything  that  any  one  can  do  for  you  ?     If  so,  mention  it.' 

'I  would  umbly  ask,  sir,'  returned  T^riah,  with  a  jerk  of  his  malevolent  head, 
'  for  leave  to  write  again  to  mother.' 

'  It  shall  certainly  be  granted,'  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

'  Thank  you,  sir  !     I  am  anxious  about  mother.     I  am  afraid  she  ain't  safe.' 

Somebody  incautiously  asked,  what  from  ?  But  there  was  a  scandalised  whisper 
of  '  Hush  !  ' 

'  Immortally  safe,  sir,'  returned  Uriah,  writhing  in  the  direction  of  the  voice. 
'  I  should  wish  mother  to  be  got  into  my  state.  I  never  should  have  been  got  into 
my  present  state  if  I  hadn't  come  here.  I  wish  mother  had  come  licre.  It  would  be 
better  for  everybody,  if  they  got  took  up,  and  was  brought  here.' 

This  sentiment  gave  imbounded  satisfaction — greater  satisfaction,  I  think,  than 
anything  that  had  passed  yet. 

'  Before  I  come  here,'  said  Uriah,  stealing  a  look  at  us,  as  if  he  would  have  blighted 
the  outer  world  to  which  we  belonged,  if  he  could,  '  I  was  given  to  follies  ;  but  now 
I  am  sensible  of  my  follies.  There  's  a  deal  of  sin  outside.  There  's  a  deal  of  sin  in 
mother.     There  's  nothing  but  sin  everywhere — except  here.' 

'  You  are  quite  changed  ?  '  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

'  Oh  dear,  yes,  sir  !  '  cried  this  hopeful  penitent. 

'  You  wouldn't  relapse,  if  you  were  going  out  ?  '  asked  somebody  else. 

'  Oh,  de-ar  no,  sir  !  ' 

'  Well  !  '  said  Mr.  Creakle,  '  this  is  very  gratifying.  You  have  addressed  Mr. 
Copperfield,  Twenty  Seven.     Do  you  wish  to  say  anything  further  to  him  ?  ' 

'  You  knew  me  a  long  time  before  I  came  here  and  was  changed,  Mr.  Copperfield,' 
said  Uriah,  looking  at  me  ;  and  a  more  villainous  look  I  never  saw,  even  on  his  visage. 
'  You  knew  me  when,  in  spite  of  my  follies,  I  was  unible  among  them  that  was  proud, 
and  meek  among  them  that  was  violent — you  was  violent  to  me  yourself,  Mr.  Copper- 
field.     Once,  you  struck  me  a  blow  in  the  face,  you  know.' 

General  commiseration.     Several  indignant  glances  directed  at  me. 

'  But  I  forgive  you,  Mr.  Copperfield,'  said  Uriah,  making  his  forgiving  nature  the 
subject  of  a  most  impious  and  awful  parallel,  which  I  shall  not  record.  '  I  forgive 
everybody.  It  would  ill  become  me  to  bear  malice.  I  freely  forgive  you,  and  I  hope 
you  '11  curb  your  passions  in  future.  I  hope  Mr.  W.  will  repent,  and  Miss  W.,  and  all 
of  that  sinful  lot.  You  've  been  visited  with  affliction,  and  I  hope  it  may  do  you 
good  ;  but  you  'd  better  have  come  here.  Mr.  W.  had  Ijctter  have  come  here,  and 
Miss  W.  too.  The  best  wish  I  could  give  you,  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  give  all  of  you 
gentlemen,  is,  that  you  could  be  took  up  and  brought  here.  When  I  think  of  my 
past  follies,  and  my  present  state,  I  am  sure  it  would  be  best  for  you.  I  pity  all  who 
ain't  brought  here  !  ' 

He  sneaked  back  into  his  cell,  amidst  a  little  chorus  of  approbation  ;  and  both 
Traddles  and  I  experienced  a  great  relief  when  he  was  locked  in. 


558  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

It  was  a  characteristic  feature  in  this  repentance,  that  I  was  fain  to  ask  what 
these  two  men  had  done,  to  be  there  at  all.  That  appeared  to  be  the  last  thing  about 
which  they  had  anything  to  say.  I  addressed  myself  to  one  of  the  two  warders,  who, 
I  suspected,  from  certain  latent  indications  in  their  faces,  knew  pretty  well  what  all 
this  stir  was  worth. 

'  Do  you  know,'  said  I,  as  we  walked  along  the  passage,  '  what  felony  was  Number 
Twenty  Seven's  last  "  folly  "  ?  ' 

The  answer  was  that  it  was  a  Bank  case. 

'  A  fraud  on  the  Bank  of  England  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  Yes,  sir.  Fraud,  forgery,  and  conspiracy.  He  and  some  others.  He  set  the 
others  on.  It  was  a  deep  plot  for  a  large  sum.  Sentence,  transportation  for  life. 
Twenty  Seven  was  the  knowingest  bird  of  the  lot,  and  had  very  nearly  kept  himself 
safe  ;   but  not  quite.     The  Bank  was  just  able  to  put  salt  upon  his  tail — and  only  just.' 

'  Do  you  know  Twenty  Eight's  offence  ?  ' 

'  Twenty  Eight,'  returned  my  informant,  speaking  throughout  in  a  low  tone,  and 
looking  over  his  shoulder  as  we  walked  along  the  passage,  to  guard  himself  from  being 
overheard,  in  such  an  unlawful  reference  to  these  Immaculates,  by  Creakle  and  the 
rest ;  '  Twenty  Eight  (also  transportation)  got  a  place,  and  robbed  a  young  master  of  a 
matter  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  in  money  and  valuables,  the  night  before  they 
were  going  abroad.     I  particularly  recollect  his  case,  from  his  being  took  by  a  dwarf.' 

'  A  what  ?  ' 

'  A  little  woman.     I  have  forgot  her  name.' 

'  Not  Mowcher  ?  ' 

'  That 's  it  !  He  had  eluded  pursuit,  and  was  going  to  America  in  a  flaxen  wig 
and  whiskers,  and  such  a  complete  disguise  as  never  you  see  in  all  your  born  daj'S  ; 
when  the  little  woman,  being  in  Southampton,  met  him  walking  along  the  street- 
picked  him  out  with  her  sharp  eye  in  a  moment — ran  betwixt  his  legs  to  upset  him — 
and  held  on  to  him  like  grim  Death.' 

'  Excellent  Miss  Mowcher  !  '  cried  I. 

'  You  'd  have  said  so,  if  you  had  seen  her,  standing  on  a  chair  in  the  witness-box 
at  the  trial,  as  I  did,'  said  my  friend.  '  He  cut  her  face  right  open,  and  pounded  her 
in  the  most  brutal  manner,  when  she  took  him  ;  but  she  never  loosed  her  hold  till  he 
was  locked  up.  She  held  so  tight  to  him,  in  fact,  that  the  officers  were  obliged  to  take 
'em  both  together.  She  gave  her  evidence  in  the  gamest  way,  and  was  highly  compli- 
mented by  the  Bench,  and  cheered  right  home  to  her  lodgings.  She  said  in  Court 
that  she  'd  have  took  him  single-handed  (on  account  of  what  she  knew  concerning 
him),  if  he  had  been  Samson.     And  it 's  my  belief  she  would  !  ' 

It  was  mine  too,  and  I  highly  respected  Miss  Mowcher  for  it. 

We  had  now  seen  all  there  was  to  see.  It  would  have  been  in  vain  to  represent 
to  such  a  man  as  the  worshipful  Mr.  Creakle,  that  Twenty  Seven  and  Twenty  Eight 
were  perfectly  consistent  and  unchanged  ;  that  exactly  what  they  were  then,  they  had 
always  been  ;  that  the  hypocritical  knaves  were  just  the  subjects  to  make  that  sort  of 
profession  in  such  a  place  ;  that  they  knew  its  market-value  at  least  as  well  as  we  did, 
in  the  immediate  service  it  would  do  them  when  they  were  expatriated  ;  in  a  word, 
that  it  was  a  rotten,  hollow,  painfully  suggestive  piece  of  business  altogether.  We  left 
them  to  their  system  and  themselves,  and  went  home  wondering. 

'  Perhaps  it 's  a  good  thing,  Traddles,'  said  I,  '  to  have  an  unsound  hobby  ridden 
hard ;    for  it 's  the  sooner  ridden  to  death.' 

'  I  hope  so,'  replied  Traddles. 


CHAPTi:il     LXII 

A    LIGHT    SI  I  INKS    ON    MV    WAY 

THE  year  came  round  to  Christmas-time,  and  I  liad  been  at  home  above 
two  months.     I  had  seen  Agnes  frequently.     However  loud  the  general 
voice  might  be  in  giving  me  encouragement,  and   however  fervent  the 
emotions  and  endeavours  to  which  it  roused  me,  I  heard  her  lightest  word 
of  praise  as  I  heard  nothing  else. 

At  least  once  a  week,  and  sometimes  oftener,  1  lodc  over  there,  and  passed  the 
evening.  I  usually  rode  back  at  night ;  for  the  old  unhappy  sense  was  always  hovering 
about  me  now — most  sorrowfully  when  I  left  her — and  I  was  glad  to  be  up  and  out, 
rather  than  wandering  over  the  past  in  weary  wakefulness  or  miserable  dreams.  I 
wore  away  the  longest  part  of  many  wild  sad  nights,  in  those  rides  ;  reviving,  as  I 
went,  the  thoughts  that  had  occupied  me  in  mj'  long  absence. 

Or,  if  I  were  to  say  rather  that  I  listened  to  the  echoes  of  those  thoughts,  I  should 
better  express  the  truth.  They  spoke  to  me  from  afar  off.  I  had  put  them  at  a 
distance,  and  accepted  my  inevitable  place.  \Vlien  I  read  to  Agnes  what  I  wrote  ; 
when  I  saw  her  listening  face  ;  moved  her  to  smiles  or  tears  ;  and  heard  her  cordial 
voice  so  earnest  on  the  shadowy  events  of  that  imaginative  world  in  which  I  lived  ; 
I  thought  what  a  fate  mine  might  have  been — but  only  thought  so,  as  I  had  thought 
after  I  was  married  to  Dora,  what  I  could  have  wished  my  wife  to  be. 

My  duty  to  Agnes,  who  loved  me  with  a  love,  which,  if  I  disquieted,  I  wronged 
most  selfishly  and  poorly,  and  could  never  restore  ;  my  matured  assurance  that  I, 
who  had  worked  out  my  own  destiny,  and  won  what  I  had  impetuously  set  my  heart 
on,  had  no  right  to  murmur  and  must  bear  ;  comprised  what  I  felt  and  what  I  had 
learned.  But  I  loved  her  :  and  now  it  even  became  some  consolation  to  me,  vaguely 
to  conceive  a  distant  day  when  I  might  blamelessly  avow  it ;  when  all  this  should  be 
over  ;  when  I  could  say  '  Agnes,  so  it  was  when  I  came  home  ;  and  now  I  am  old,  and 
I  never  have  loved  since  !  ' 

She  did  not  once  show  me  any  change  in  herself.  What  she  always  had  been  to 
me,  she  still  was  ;   wholly  unaltered. 

Between  my  aunt  and  me  there  had  been  something,  in  this  connection,  since  the 
night  of  my  return,  which  I  cannot  call  a  restramt,  or  an  avoidance  of  the  subject,  so 
much  as  an  implied  understanding  that  we  thought  of  it  together,  but  did  not  shape 
our  thoughts  into  words.  \Mien,  according  to  our  old  custom,  we  sat  before  the  fire 
at  night,  we  often  fell  mto  this  train  ;  as  naturally,  and  as  consciously  to  each  other, 
as  if  we  had  unreservedly  said  so.  But  we  preserved  an  unbroken  silence.  I  believed 
that  she  had  read,  or  partly  read,  my  thoughts  that  night  ;  and  that  she  fully  compre- 
hended why  I  gave  mine  no  more  distinct  expression. 

This  Christmas-time  being  come,  and  Agnes  having  reposed  no  new  confidence  in 
me,  a  doubt  that  had  several  times  arisen  in  my  mind — whether  she  could  have  that 
perception  of  the  true  state  of  my  breast,  which  restrained  her  with  the  apprehension 
of  giving  me  pain — began  to  oppress  me  heavily.  If  that  were  so,  my  sacrifice  was 
nothing  ;    ray  plainest  obligation  to  her  unfulfilled  ;    and  every  poor  action  I  had 


560  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

shrunk  from,  I  was  hourly  doing.  I  resolved  to  set  this  right  beyond  all  doubt ; — 
if  such  a  barrier  were  between  us,  to  break  it  down  at  once  with  a  determined  hand. 

It  was — what  lasting  reason  have  I  to  remember  it  ! — a  cold,  harsh,  winter  day. 
There  had  been  snow  some  hours  before  ;  and  it  lay,  not  deep,  but  hard-frozen  on  the 
ground.  Out  at  sea,  beyond  my  window,  the  wind  blew  ruggedly  from  the  north. 
I  had  been  thinking  of  it,  sweeping  over  those  mountain  wastes  of  snow  in  Switzerland, 
then  inaccessible  to  any  human  foot ;  and  had  been  speculating  which  was  the  lonelier, 
those  solitary  regions,  or  a  deserted  ocean. 

'  Riding  to-day,  Trot  ?  '  said  my  aunt,  putting  her  head  in  at  the  door. 

'  Yes,'  said  I,  '  I  am  going  over  to  Canterbury.     It 's  a  good  day  for  a  ride.' 

'  I  hope  your  horse  may  think  so,  too,'  said  my  aunt ;  '  but  at  present  he  is  holding 
down  his  head  and  his  ears,  standing  before  the  door  there,  as  if  he  thought  his  stable 
preferable.' 

My  aunt,  I  may  observe,  allowed  my  horse  on  the  forbidden  ground,  but  had  not 
at  all  relented  towards  the  donkeys. 

'  He  will  be  fresh  enough,  presently  !  '  said  I. 

'  The  ride  will  do  his  master  good,  at  all  events,'  observed  my  aunt,  glancing  at 
the  papers  on  my  table.  '  Ah,  child,  you  pass  a  good  many  hours  here  !  I  never 
thought,  when  I  used  to  read  books,  what  work  it  was  to  write  them.' 

'  It 's  work  enough  to  read  them,  sometimes,'  I  returned.  '  As  to  the  writing,  it 
has  its  own  charms,  aunt.' 

'  Ah  !  I  see  !  '  said  my  aunt.  '  Ambition,  love  of  approbation,  sympathy,  and 
much  more,  I  suppose  ?     Well  :   go  along  with  you  !  ' 

'  Do  you  know  anything  more,'  said  I,  standing  composedly  before  her — she  had 
patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  sat  down  in  my  chair,  '  of  that  attachment  of  Agnes  ?  ' 

She  looked  up  in  my  face  a  little  while,  before  replying — 

'  I  think  I  do.  Trot.' 

'  Are  you  confirmed  in  your  impression  ?  '  I  inquired. 

'  I  think  I  am,  Trot.' 

She  looked  so  steadfastly  at  me  :  with  a  kind  of  doubt,  or  pity,  or  suspense  in 
her  affection  :  that  I  summoned  the  stronger  determination  to  show  her  a  perfectly 
cheerful  face. 

'  And  what  is  more.  Trot '  said  my  aunt. 

'  Yes  !  ' 

'  I  think  Agnes  is  going  to  be  married.' 

'  God  bless  her  !  '  said  I,  cheerfully. 

'  God  bless  her  !  '  said  my  aunt,  '  and  her  husband  too  !  ' 

I  echoed  it,  parted  from  my  aunt,  went  lightly  downstairs,  mounted,  and  rode 
away.     There  was  greater  reason  than  before  to  do  what  I  had  resolved  to  do. 

How  well  I  recollect  the  wintry  ride  !  The  frozen  particles  of  ice,  brushed  from 
the  blades  of  grass  by  the  wind,  and  borne  across  my  face  ;  the  hard  clatter  of  the  horse's 
hoofs,  beating  a  tune  upon  the  ground  ;  the  stiff-tilled  soil ;  the  snowdrift,  lightly 
eddying  in  the  chalk-pit  as  the  breeze  ruffled  it ;  the  smoking  team  with  the  waggon  of 
old  hay,  stopping  to  breathe  on  the  hill-top,  and  shaking  their  bells  musically  ;  the 
whitened  slopes  and  sweeps  of  Down-land  lying  against  the  dark  sky,  as  if  they  were 
drawn  on  a  huge  slate  ! 

I  found  Agnes  alone.  The  little  girls  had  gone  to  their  own  homes  now,  and 
she  was  alone  by  the  fire,  reading.     She  put  down  her  book  on  seeing  me  come  in  ; 


A  LK^IIT  SniNi:s  ON  MY  WAY  r.ci 

and  having  welcomed  me  as  usual,  took  hoi   work-hasket  and  sat  in  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  windows. 

I  sat  beside  her  on  the  window-seat,  and  we  lalkcd  of  what  I  was  doing,  and 
when  it  would  he  done,  and  of  the  profjress  I  had  made  sinee  my  last  visit.  Agnes  was 
very  cheerful  ;  and  laughingly  predicted  that  I  should  soon  become  too  famous  to  be 
talked  to,  on  sueh  subjects. 

'  So  I  make  the  most  of  I  lie  proseul  lime,  you  see,'  said  Agnes,  '  and  talk  to  you 
while  I  may.' 

As  I  looked  at  her  beautiful  face,  observant  of  her  work,  she  raised  her  mild 
clear  eyes,  and  saw  that  I  was  looking  at  her. 

'  You  are  thoughtful  to-day,  Trotwood  !  ' 

'  Agnes,  shall  I  tell  you  what  about  'i     I  came  to  tell  you.' 

She  put  aside  her  work,  as  she  was  used  to  do  when  we  were  seriously  discussing 
anything  ;   and  gave  me  her  whole  attention. 

'  My  dear  Agnes,  do  you  doubt  my  being  true  to  you  ?  ' 

'  No  I  '  she  answered,  with  a  look  of  astonishment. 

'  Do  you  doubt  my  being  what  I  always  have  been  to  you  ?  ' 

'  No  !  '  she  answered,  as  before. 

'  Do  you  remember  that  I  tried  to  tell  you,  when  I  came  home,  what  a  debt  of 
gratitude  I  owed  you,  dearest  Agnes,  and  how  fervently  I  felt  towards  you  ?  ' 

'  I  remember  it,'  she  said,  gently,  '  very  well.' 

'  You  have  a  secret,'  said  I.     '  Let  me  share  it,  Agnes.' 

She  east  down  her  eyes,  and  trembled. 

'  I  could  hardly  fail  to  know,  even  if  I  had  not  heard — but  from  other  lips  than 
yours,  Agnes,  which  seems  strange — that  there  is  some  one  upon  whom  you  have 
bestowed  the  treasure  of  your  love.  Do  not  shut  me  out  of  what  concerns  your  happi- 
ness so  nearly  !  If  you  can  trust  me  as  you  say  you  can,  and  as  I  know  you  may,  let 
me  be  your  friend,  your  brother,  in  this  matter,  of  all  others  !  ' 

With  an  appealing,  almost  a  reproachful,  glance,  she  rose  from  the  window  ;  and 
hurrying  across  the  room  as  if  without  knowing  where,  put  her  hands  before  her  face, 
and  burst  into  such  tears  as  smote  me  to  the  heart. 

And  yet  they  awakened  something  in  me,  bringing  promise  to  my  heart.  Without 
my  knowing  why,  these  tears  allied  themselves  with  the  quietly  sad  smile  which  was 
so  fixed  in  my  remembrance,  and  shook  me  more  with  hope  than  fear  or  sorrow. 

'  Agnes  1     Sister  !     Dearest  !     What  have  I  done  ?  ' 

'  Let  me  go  away,  Trotwood.  I  am  not  well.  I  am  not  myself.  I  will  speak 
to  you  by  and  by — another  time.  I  will  write  to  you.  Don't  speak  to  me  now. 
Don't  1   don't  !  ' 

I  sought  to  recollect  what  she  had  said,  when  I  had  spoken  to  her  on  that  former 
night,  of  her  affection  needing  no  return.  It  seemed  a  very  world  that  I  must  search 
through  in  a  moment. 

'  Agnes,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  so,  and  think  that  I  have  been  the  cause.  My 
dearest  girl,  dearer  to  me  than  anything  in  life,  if  you  are  unhappy,  let  me  share  vour 
unhappiness.  If  you  are  in  need  of  help  or  counsel,  let  me  try  to  give  it  to  you.  If 
you  have  indeed  a  burden  on  your  heart,  let  me  try  to  lighten  it.  For  whom  do  I 
live  now,  Agnes,  if  it  is  not  for  you  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  spare  me !  I  am  not  myself !  Another  time  !  '  was  all  I  could 
distinguish. 


562  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

Was  it  a  selfish  error  that  was  leading  me  away  ?  Or,  having  once  a  clue  to 
hope,  was  there  something  opening  to  me  that  I  had  not  dared  to  think  of  ? 

'  I  must  say  more.  I  cannot  let  you  leave  me  so  !  For  Heaven's  sake,  Agnes,  let 
us  not  mistake  each  other  after  all  these  years,  and  all  that  has  come  and  gone  with 
them  !  I  must  speak  plainly.  If  you  have  any  lingering  thought  that  I  could  envy 
the  happiness  you  will  confer  ;  that  I  could  not  resign  you  to  a  dearer  protector,  of 
your  own  choosing  ;  that  I  could  not,  from  my  removed  place,  be  a  contented  witness 
of  your  joy  ;  dismiss  it,  for  I  don't  deserve  it  !  I  have  not  suffered  quite  in  vain. 
You  have  not  taught  me  quite  in  vain.     There  is  no  alloy  of  self  in  what  I  feel  for  you.* 

She  was  quiet  now.  In  a  little  time,  she  turned  her  pale  face  towards  me,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice,  broken  here  and  there,  but  very  clear — 

'  I  owe  it  to  your  pure  friendship  for  me,  Trotwood — which,  indeed,  I  do  not 
doubt — to  tell  you,  you  are  mistaken.  I  can  do  no  more.  If  I  have  sometimes,  in 
the  course  of  years,  wanted  help  and  counsel,  they  have  come  to  me.  If  I  have  some- 
times been  unhappy,  the  feeling  has  passed  away.  If  I  have  ever  had  a  burden  on  my 
heart,  it  has  been  lightened  for  me.  If  I  have  anj'  secret,  it  is — no  new  one  ;  and  is — 
not  what  you  suppose.  I  cannot  reveal  it,  or  divide  it.  It  has  long  been  mine,  and 
must  remain  mine.' 

'  Agnes  !     Stay  !     A  moment  !  ' 

She  was  going  away,  but  I  detained  her.  I  clasped  my  arm  about  her  waist. 
'  In  the  course  of  years  !  '  '  It  is  not  a  new  one  !  '  New  thoughts  and  hopes  were 
whirling  through  my  mind,  and  all  the  colours  of  my  life  were  changing. 

'  Dearest  Agnes  !  Whom  I  so  respect  and  honour — whom  I  so  devotedly  love  ! 
When  I  came  here  to-day,  I  thought  that  nothing  could  have  wrested  this  confession 
from  me.  I  thought  I  could  have  kept  it  in  my  bosom  all  our  lives,  till  we  were  old. 
But,  Agnes,  if  I  have  indeed  any  new-born  hope  that  I  may  ever  call  you  something 
more  than  Sister,  widely  different  from  Sister  ! ' 

Her  tears  fell  fast ;  but  they  were  not  like  those  she  had  lately  shed,  and  I  saw 
my  hope  brighten  in  them. 

'  Agnes  !  Ever  my  guide,  and  best  support  !  If  you  had  been  more  mindful 
of  yourself,  and  less  of  me,  when  we  grew  up  here  together,  I  think  my  heedless  fancy 
never  would  have  wandered  from  you.  But  you  were  so  much  better  than  I,  so 
necessary  to  me  in  every  boyish  hope  and  disappointment,  that  to  have  you  to  confide 
in,  and  rely  upon  in  everything,  became  a  second  nature,  supplanting  for  the  time 
the  first  and  greater  one  of  loving  you  as  I  do  1  ' 

Still  weeping,  but  not  sadly — joyfully  !  And  clasped  in  my  arms  as  she  had 
never  been,  as  I  had  thought  she  never  was  to  be  ! 

'  When  I  loved  Dora — fondly,  Agnes,  as  you  know ' 

'  Yes  !  '  she  cried,  earnestly.     '  I  am  glad  to  know  it  !  ' 

'  When  I  loved  her — even  then,  my  love  would  have  been  incomplete,  without 
your  sympathy.  I  had  it,  and  it  was  perfected.  And  when  I  lost  her,  Agnes,  what 
should  I  have  been  without  you,  still  ?  ' 

Closer  in  my  arms,  nearer  to  my  heart,  her  trembling  hand  upon  my  shoulder, 
her  sweet  eyes  shining  through  her  tears,  on  mine  ! 

'  I  went  away,  dear  Agnes,  loving  you.  I  stayed  away,  loving  you.  I  returned 
home,  loving  you  !  ' 

And  now,  I  tried  to  tell  her  of  the  struggle  I  had  had,  and  the  conclusion  I 
had  come  to.     I  tried  to  lay  my  mind  before  her,  truly,  and  entirely.     I  tried  to  show 


A  LIGHT  SlilNES  ON  MY  WAY  r,i>a 

her  how  I  had  hoped  I  hud  come  into  the  better  knowledge  of  myself  and  of  lior  ; 
how  I  had  resigned  myself  to  what  that  better  knowledge  brought ;  and  how  I  had 
come  there,  even  that  day,  in  my  lidclily  to  this.  If  she  did  so  love  me  (I  said)  that 
she  could  take  me  for  her  liushaiul,  she  could  do  so,  on  no  deserving  of  mine,  except 
upon  the  truth  of  my  love  for  her,  and  the  trouble  in  which  it  liad  ripened  to  be  what 
it  wiis  ;  and  hence  it  was  that  I  revealed  it.  And  O,  Agnes,  even  out  of  thy  true  eyes, 
in  that  same  time,  the  spirit  of  my  child-wife  looked  upon  rne,  saying  it  was  well  ; 
and  winning  me,  through  thee,  to  tenderest  recollections  of  the  Blossom  that  had 
withered  in  its  bloom  ! 

'  I  am  so  blest,  Trotwood — my  heart  is  so  overcharged — but  there  is  one  thing  I 
must  say.' 

'  Dearest,  what  ?  ' 

She  laid  her  gentle  hands  upon  my  shoulders,  and  looked  calmly  in  my  face. 

'  Do  you  know,  yet,  what  it  is  ?  ' 

'  I  am  afraid  to  speculate  on  what  it  is.     Tell  me,  my  dear.' 

'  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life  !  ' 

Oh,  we  were  happy,  we  were  happy  !  Our  tears  were  not  for  the  trials  (hers  so 
nmch  the  greater),  through  which  we  had  come  to  be  thus,  but  for  the  rapture  of  being 
thus,  never  to  be  divided  more  ! 

We  walked,  that  winter  evening,  in  the  fields  together  ;  and  the  blessed  calm 
within  us  seemed  to  be  partaken  by  the  frosty  air.  The  early  stars  began  to  shine 
while  we  were  lingering  on,  and  looking  up  to  them,  we  thanked  our  God  for  having 
guided  us  to  this  tranquillity. 

We  stood  together  in  the  same  old-fashioned  window  at  night,  wlicn  the  moon 
was  shining  ;  Agnes  with  her  quiet  eyes  raised  up  to  it ;  I  following  her  glance.  Long 
miles  of  road  then  opened  out  before  my  mind  ;  and,  toiling  on,  I  saw  a  ragged  way- 
worn boy  forsaken  and  neglected,  who  should  come  to  call  even  the  heart  now  beating 
against  mine,  his  own. 

It  was  nearly  dinner-time  next  day  when  we  appeared  before  my  aunt.  She 
was  up  in  my  study,  Peggotty  said  :  which  it  was  her  pride  to  keep  in  readiness  and 
order  for  me.     We  found  her,  in  her  spectacles,  sitting  by  the  fire. 

'  Goodness  me  !  '  said  my  aunt,  peering  through  the  dusk,  '  who  's  this  you  're 
bringing  home  ?  ' 

'  Agnes,'  said  I. 

As  we  had  arranged  to  say  nothing  at  first,  my  aunt  was  not  a  little  discomfited. 
She  darted  a  hopeful  glance  at  me,  when  I  said  '  Agnes  '  ;  but  seeing  that  I  looked  as 
usual,  she  took  off  her  spectacles  in  despair,  and  rubbed  her  nose  with  them. 

She  greeted  Agnes  heartily,  nevertheless  ;  and  we  were  soon  in  the  lighted  parlour 
downstairs,  at  dinner.  My  aunt  put  on  her  spectacles  twice  or  thrice,  to  take  another 
look  at  me,  but  as  often  took  them  off  again,  disappointed,  and  rubbed  her  nose  with 
them.     Much  to  the  discomfiture  of  Mr.  Dick,  who  knew  this  to  be  a  bad  symptom. 

'  By  the  bye,  aunt,'  said  I.  after  dinner  ;  '  I  have  been  speaking  to  Agnes  about 
what  you  told  me.' 

'  Then,  Trot,'  said  my  aunt,  turning  scarlet,  '  you  did  wrong,  and  broke  your 
promise.' 


564  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  You  are  not  angry,  aunt,  I  trust  ?  I  am  sure  you  won't  be,  when  you  learn 
that  Agnes  is  not  unhappy  in  any  attachment.' 

'  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  '  said  my  aunt. 

As  my  aunt  appeared  to  be  annoyed,  I  thought  the  best  way  was  to  cut  her 
annoyance  short.  I  took  Agnes  in  my  arm  to  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  we  both 
leaned  over  her.  My  aunt  with  one  clap  of  her  hands,  and  one  look  through  her 
spectacles,  immediately  went  into  hysterics,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  all  my 
knowledge  of  her. 

The  hysterics  called  up  Peggotty.  The  moment  my  aunt  was  restored,  she 
flew  at  Peggotty,  and  calling  her  a  silly  old  creature,  hugged  her  with  all  her  might. 
After  that,  she  hugged  Mr.  Dick  (who  was  highly  honoured,  but  a  good  deal  surprised) ; 
and  after  that,  told  them  why.     Then  we  were  all  happy  together. 

I  could  not  discover  whether  my  aunt,  in  her  last  short  conversation  with  me, 
had  fallen  on  a  pious  fraud,  or  had  really  mistaken  the  state  of  my  mind.  It  was  quite 
enough,  she  said,  that  she  had  told  me  Agnes  was  going  to  be  married  ;  and  that  I 
now  knew  better  than  any  one  how  true  it  was. 

We  were  married  within  a  fortnight.  Traddles  and  Sophy,  and  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Strong,  were  the  only  guests  at  our  quiet  wedding.  We  left  them  full  of  joy  ; 
and  drove  away  together.  Clasped  in  my  embrace,  I  held  the  source  of  every  worthy 
aspiration  I  had  ever  had  ;  the  centre  of  myself,  the  circle  of  my  life,  my  own,  my 
wife  ;   my  love  of  whom  was  founded  on  a  rock  ! 

'  Dearest  husband  ! '  said  Agnes.  '  Now  that  I  may  call  you  by  that  name,  I 
have  one  thing  more  to  tell  you.' 

'  Let  me  hear  it,  love.' 

'  It  grows  out  of  the  night  when  Dora  died.     She  sent  you  for  me.' 

'  She  did.' 

'  She  told  me  that  she  left  me  something.     Can  you  think  what  it  was  ?  ' 

I  believed  I  could.     I  drew  the  wife  who  had  so  long  loved  me,  closer  to  my  side. 

'  She  told  me  that  she  made  a  last  request  to  me,  and  left  me  a  last  charge.' 

'  And  it  was ' 

'  That  only  I  would  occupy  this  vacant  place.' 

And  Agnes  laid  her  head  upon  my  breast,  and  wept ;  and  I  wept  with  her,  though 
we  were  so  happy. 


CHAPTER    LXIII 

A   VISITOR 

WHAT  I  have  purposed  to  record  is  nearly  finished  ;    but  there  is  yet  an 
incident  conspicuous   in   my   memory,   on   which  it   often  rests  with 
delight,  and  without  which  one  thread  in  the  web  I  have  spun,  would 
have  a  ravelled  end. 
I  had  advanced  in  fame  and  fortune,  my  domestic  joy  was  perfect,  I  had  been 
married  ten  happy  years.     Agnes  and  I  were  sitting  by  the  fire,  in  our  house  in  London, 
one  night  in  spring,  and  three  of  our  children  were  playing  in  the  room,  when  I  was 
told  that  a  stranger  wished  to  see  me. 


I 


A  VISITOR  565 

He  hud  been  uskcd  if  he  carno  on  business,  and  liad  answered  No  ;  he  had  eome 
for  tlie  pleasure  of  seeing  nic,  and  had  come  a  long  way.  He  was  an  old  man,  my 
servant  said,  and  looked  like  a  farmer. 

As  this  sounded  mysterious  to  the  children,  and  moreover  was  like  the  beginning 
of  a  favourite  story  Agnes  used  to  tell  them,  introductory  to  the  arrival  of  a  wicked 
old  Fairy  in  a  cloak  who  hated  everybody,  it  [)roduced  some  commotion.  One  of 
our  boys  laid  his  head  in  his  mother's  lap  to  be  out  of  harm's  way,  and  little  Agnes 
(our  eldest  child)  left  her  doll  in  a  chair  to  represent  her,  and  thrust  out  her  little  heap 
of  golden  curls  from  between  the  window-curtains,  to  see  what  happened  next, 
'  Let  him  come  in  here  !  '  said  I. 

There  soon  ajjpeared,  pausing  in  the  dark  doorway  as  he  entered,  a  hale,  grey- 
haired  old  man.  Little  Agnes,  attracted  by  his  looks,  had  run  to  bring  him  in,  and 
I  had  not  yet  clearly  seen  his  face,  when  my  wife,  starting  up,  cried  out  to  me,  in  a 
pleased  and  agitated  voice,  that  it  was  Mr.  Peggotty  ! 

It  was  Mr.  Peggotty.  An  old  man  now,  but  in  a  ruddy,  hearty,  strong  old  age. 
When  our  first  emotion  was  over,  and  he  sat  before  the  fire  with  the  children  on  his 
knees,  and  the  blaze  shining  on  his  face,  he  looked,  to  me,  as  vigorous  and  robust, 
withal  as  handsome,  an  old  man,  as  ever  I  had  seen. 

'  Mas'r  Davy,'  said  he.  And  the  old  name  in  the  old  tone  fell  so  naturally  on 
my  ear  !  '  Mas'r  Davy,  'tis  a  joyful  hour  as  I  see  you,  once  more,  'long  with  your  own 
trew  wife  !  ' 

'  A  joyful  hour  indeed,  old  friend  !  '  cried  I. 

'  And  these  heer  pretty  ones,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  '  To  look  at  these  heer  flowers  ! 
Why,  Mas'r  Davy,  you  was  but  the  heighth  of  the  littlest  of  these,  when  I  first  see  you  ! 
When  Em'ly  warn't  no  bigger,  and  our  poor  lad  were  but  a  lad  !  ' 

'  Time  has  changed  me  more  than  it  has  changed  you  since  then,'  said  I.  '  But 
let  these  dear  rogues  go  to  bed  ;  and  as  no  house  in  England  but  this  must  hold  you, 
tell  me  where  to  send  for  your  luggage  (is  the  old  black  bag  among  it,  that  went  so 
far,  I  wonder  !),  and  then,  over  a  glass  of  Yarmouth  grog,  we  will  have  the  tidings  of 
ten  years !  ' 

'  Are  you  alone  ?  '  asked  Agnes. 

'  Yes,  ma'am,'  he  said,  kissing  her  hand,  '  quite  alone.' 

We  sat  him  between  us,  not  knowing  how  to  give  him  welcome  enough  ;  and  as 
I  began  to  listen  to  his  old  familiar  voice,  I  could  have  fancied  he  was  still  pursuing 
his  long  journey  in  search  of  his  darling  niece. 

'  It  's  a  mort  of  water,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  fur  to  come  across,  and  on'y  stay  a 
matter  of  fower  weeks.  But  water  ('specially  when  'tis  salt)  comes  nat'ral  to  me  ; 
and  friends  is  dear,  and  I  am  heer. — Wliich  is  verse,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  surprised 
to  find  it  out,  '  though  I  hadn't  such  intentions.' 

'  Are  you  going  back  those  many  thousand  miles,  so  soon  ?  '  asked  Agnes. 
'  Yes,  ma'am,'  he  returned.  '  I  giv  the  promise  to  Em'ly,  afore  I  come  away. 
You  see,  I  doen't  grow  younger  as  the  years  comes  round,  and  if  I  hadn't  sailed  as 
'twas,  most  like  I  shouldn't  never  have  done  't.  And  it  's  alius  been  on  my  mind,  as 
I  tnust  come  and  see  Mas'r  Davy  and  your  own  sweet  blooming  self,  in  your  wedded 
happiness,  afore  I  got  to  be  too  old.' 

He  looked  at  us,  as  if  he  could  never  feast  his  eyes  on  us  sufliciently.     Agnes 
laughingly  put  back  some  scattered  locks  of  his  grey  hair,  that  he  might  see  us  better. 
'  And  now  tell  us,'  said  I,  '  everything  relating  to  your  fortunes.' 

t: 


...o 


566  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

'  Our  fortuns,  Mas'r  Davy,'  he  rejoined,  '  is  soon  told.  We  haven't  fared  nohows, 
but  fared  to  thrive.  We  've  alius  thrived.  We  've  worked  as  we  ought  to  't,  and 
maybe  we  lived  a  lettle  hard  at  first  or  so,  but  we  have  alius  thrived.  What  with 
sheep-farming,  and  what  with  stock-farming,  and  what  with  one  thing  and  what  with 
t'other,  we  are  as  well  to  do,  as  well  could  be.  Theer  's  been  kiender  a  blessing  fell 
upon  us,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  reverentially  inclining  his  head,  '  and  we  've  done  nowt 
but  prosper.  That  is,  in  the  long  run.  If  not  yesterday,  why  then  to-day.  If  not 
to-day,  why  then  to-morrow.' 

'  And  Emily  ?  '  said  Agnes  and  I,  both  together. 

'  Em'ly,'  said  he,  '  arter  you  left  her,  ma'am — and  I  never  heerd  her  saying  of 
her  prayers  at  night,  t'other  side  the  canvas  screen,  when  we  was  settled  in  the  Bush, 
but  what  I  heerd  your  name — and  arter  she  and  me  lost  sight  of  Mas'r  Davy,  that 
theer  shining  sundown — was  that  low,  at  first,  that,  if  she  had  know'd  then  what 
Mas'r  Davy  kep  from  us  so  kind  and  thowtful,  'tis  my  opinion  she  'd  have  drooped 
away.  But  theer  was  some  poor  folks  aboard  as  had  illness  among  'em,  and  she 
took  care  of  them  ;  and  theer  was  the  children  in  our  company,  and  she  took  care  of 
them  ;   and  so  she  got  to  be  busy,  and  to  be  doing  good,  and  that  helped  her.' 

'  When  did  she  first  hear  of  it  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  I  kep  it  from  her  arter  I  heerd  on  't,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  going  on  nigh  a  year. 
We  was  living  then  in  a  solitary  place,  but  among  the  beautifullest  trees,  and  with 
the  roses  a  covering  our  Bein'  to  the  roof.  Theer  come  along  one  day,  when  I  was 
out  a  working  on  the  land,  a  traveller  from  our  own  Norfolk  or  Suffolk  in  England 
(I  doen't  rightly  mind  which),  and  of  course  we  took  him  in,  and  giv  him  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  made  him  welcome.  We  all  do  that,  all  the  colony  over.  He  'd  got  an  old 
newspaper  with  him,  and  some  other  account  in  print  of  the  storm.  That 's  how  she 
know'd  it.     When  I  come  home  at  night,  I  found  she  know'd  it.' 

He  dropped  his  voice  as  he  said  these  words,  and  the  gravity  I  so  well  remembered 
overspread  his  face. 

'  Did  it  change  her  much  ?  '  we  asked. 

'  Aye,  for  a  good  long  time,'  he  said,  shaking  his  head  ;  '  if  not  to  this  present 
hour.  But  I  think  the  solitoode  done  her  good.  And  she  had  a  deal  to  mind  in  the 
way  of  poultry  and  the  like,  and  minded  of  it,  and  come  through.  I  wonder,'  he  said 
thoughtfully,  '  if  you  could  see  my  Em'ly  now,  Mas'r  Davy,  whether  you  'd  know  her  !  ' 

'  Is  she  so  altered  ?  '  I  inquired. 

'  I  doen't  know.  I  see  her  ev'ry  day,  and  doen't  know  ;  but,  odd-times,  I  have 
thowt  so.  A  slight  figure,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  at  the  fire,  '  kiender  worn  ; 
soft,  sorrowful,  blue  eyes  ;  a  delicate  face  ;  a  pretty  head,  leaning  a  little  down  ;  a 
quiet  voice  and  way — timid  a'most.     That 's  Em'ly  !  ' 

We  silently  observed  him  as  he  sat,  still  looking  at  the  fire. 

'  Some  thinks,'  he  said,  '  as  her  affection  was  ill-bestowed  ;  some,  as  her  marriage 
was  broke  off  by  death.  No  one  knows  how  'tis.  She  might  have  married  well  a 
mort  of  times,  "  But,  uncle,"  she  says  to  me,  "  that 's  gone  for  ever."  Cheerful  along 
with  me  ;  retired  when  others  is  by  ;  fond  of  going  any  distance  fur  to  teach  a  child, 
or  fur  to  tend  a  sick  person,  or  fur  to  do  some  kindness  tow'rds  a  young  girl's  wedding 
(and  she 's  done  a  many,  but  has  never  seen  one) ;  fondly  loving  of  her  uncfe  ;  patient ; 
liked  by  young  and  old  ;    sowt  out  by  all  that  has  any  trouble.     That 's  Em'ly  !  ' 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  face,  and  with  a  half-suppressed  sigh  looked  up 
from  the  fire. 


A  VISITOR  567 

'  Is  Martha  with  you  yet  '(  '  I  asked. 

'  Martha,'  he  replied,  '  got  married,  Mas'r  Davy,  in  the  second  year.  A  young 
man,  a  farm-labourer,  as  come  by  us  on  his  way  to  market  with  his  mas'r's  drays — a 
journey  of  over  five  hundred  mile,  theer  and  back — made  offers  fur  to  take  her  fur  his 
wife  (wives  is  very  scarce  theer),  and  then  to  set  up  for  their  two  selves  in  the  Bush. 
She  spoke  to  me  fur  to  tell  him  her  trew  story.  I  did.  They  was  married,  and  they 
live  fower  hundred  mile  away  from  any  voices  but  their  own  and  the  singing 
birds.' 

'  Mrs.  Gummidge  ?  '  I  suggested. 

It  was  a  pleasant  key  to  touch,  for  Mr.  Peggotty  suddenly  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter,  and  rubbed  his  hands  up  and  down  his  legs,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
do  when  he  enjoyed  himself  in  the  long-shipwrecked  boat. 

'  Would  you  believe  it  ? '  he  said.  '  Why,  someun  even  made  offers  fur  to 
marry  her\  If  a  ship's  cook  that  was  turning  settler,  Mas'r  Davy,  didn't  make 
offers  fur  to  marry  Missis  Gummidge,  I  'm  Gormed — and  I  can't  say  no  fairer 
than  that ! ' 

I  never  saw  Agnes  laugh  so.  This  sudden  ecstasy  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Peggotty 
was  so  delightful  to  her,  that  she  could  not  leave  off  laughing  ;  and  the  more  she 
laughed  the  more  she  made  me  laugh,  and  the  greater  Mr.  Peggotty's  ecstasy  became, 
and  the  more  he  rubbed  his  legs. 

'  And  what  did  Mrs.  Gummidge  say  ?  '  I  asked,  when  I  was  grave  enough. 

'  If  you  '11  believe  me,'  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  Missis  Gummidge,  'stead  of 
saying  "  thank  you,  I  'm  much  obleeged  to  you,  I  ain't  a  going  fur  to  change  my 
condition  at  my  time  of  life,"  up'd  with  a  bucket  as  was  standing  by,  and  laid  it 
over  that  theer  ship's  cook's  head  till  he  sung  out  fur  help,  and  I  went  in  and 
reskied  of  him.' 

Mr.  Peggotty  burst  into  a  great  roar  of  laughter,  and  Agnes  and  I  both  kept 
him  company. 

'  But  I  must  say  this  for  the  good  creetur,'  he  resumed,  wiping  his  face  when  we 
were  quite  exhausted  ;  '  she  has  been  all  she  said  she  'd  be  to  us,  and  more.  She  's 
the  willingest,  the  trewest,  the  honestest-helping  woman,  Mas'r  Davy,  as  ever 
draw'd  the  breath  of  life.  I  have  never  known  her  to  be  lone  and  lorn,  for  a 
single  minute,  not  even  when  the  colony  was  all  afore  us,  and  we  was  new  to 
it.  And  thinking  of  the  old  'un  is  a  thing  she  never  done,  I  do  assure  you,  since 
she  left  England  !  ' 

'  Now,  last,  not  least.  Mr.  Micawber,'  said  I.  '  He  has  paid  off  even,'  obligation 
he  incurred  here — even  to  Traddles's  bill,  you  remember,  my  dear  Agnes — and  there- 
fore we  may  take  it  for  granted  that  he  is  doing  well.  But  what  is  the  latest  news 
of  him  ?  ' 

Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  smile,  put  his  hand  in  his  breast-pocket,  and  produced  a 
flat -folded,  paper  parcel,  from  which  he  took  out,  with  much  care,  a  little  odd-looking 
newspaper. 

'  You  are  to  understan',  Mas'r  Davy,'  said  he.  '  as  we  have  left  the  Bush  now, 
being  so  well  to  do  ;  and  have  gone  right  away  round  to  Port  Middlebay  Harbour, 
wheer  theer  's  what  we  call  a  town.' 

'  Mr.  Micawber  was  in  the  Bush  near  you  ?  '  said  I. 

'  Bless  you,  yes,'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  '  and  turned  to  with  a  will.  I  never  wish 
to  meet  a  better  gen'l'man  for  turning  to,  with  a  will.     I  've  seen  that  theer  bald  head 


568  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

of  his,  a  perspiring  in  the  sun,  Mas'r  Davy,  till  I  a'most  thowt  it  would  have  melted 
away.     And  now  he  's  a  magistrate.' 

'  A  magistrate,  eh  ?  '  said  I. 

Mr.  Peggotty  pointed  to  a  certain  paragraph  in  the  newspaper,  where  I  read  aloud 
as  follows,  from  the  '  Port  Middlebay  Times  '  : 

'^P~The  public  dinner  to  our  distinguished  fellow-colonist  and  townsman,  Wilkins 
MiCAWBER,  Esquire,  Port  Middlebay  District  Magistrate,  came  off  yesterday  in  the 
large  room  of  the  Hotel,  which  was  crowded  to  suffocation.  It  is  estimated  that  not 
fewer  than  forty-seven  persons  must  have  been  accommodated  with  dinner  at  one 
time,  exclusive  of  the  company  in  the  passage  and  on  the  stairs.  The  beauty,  fashion, 
and  exclusiveness  of  Port  Middlebay,  flocked  to  do  honour  to  one  so  deservedly  esteemed, 
so  highly  talented,  and  so  widely  popular.  Doctor  Mell  (of  Colonial  Salem-House 
Grammar  School,  Port  Middlebay)  presided,  and  on  his  right  sat  the  distinguished 
guest.  After  the  removal  of  the  cloth,  and  the  singing  of  Non  Nobis  (beautifully 
executed,  and  in  which  we  were  at  no  loss  to  distinguish  the  bell-like  notes  of  that 
gifted  amateur,  Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire,  Junior),  the  usual  loyal  and  patriotic 
toasts  were  severally  given  and  rapturously  received.  Dr.  Mell,  in  a  speech  replete 
with  feeling,  then  proposed  "  Our  distinguished  Guest,  the  ornament  of  our  town. 
May  he  never  leave  us  but  to  better  himself,  and  may  his  success  among  us  be  such  as 
to  render  his  bettering  himself  impossible  !  "  The  cheering  with  which  the  toast  was 
received  defies  description.  Again  and  again  it  rose  and  fell,  like  the  waves  of  ocean. 
At  length  all  was  hushed,  and  Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire,  presented  himself  to 
return  thanks.  Far  be  it  from  us,  in  the  present  comparatively  imperfect  state  of  the 
resources  of  our  establishment,  to  endeavour  to  follow  our  distinguished  townsman 
through  the  smoothly-flowing  periods  of  his  polished  and  highly-ornate  address  ! 
Suffice  it  to  observe,  that  it  was  a  masterpiece  of  eloquence  ;  and  that  those  passages 
in  which  he  more  particularly  traced  his  own  successful  career  to  its  source,  and  warned 
the  younger  portion  of  his  auditory  from  the  shoals  of  ever  incurring  pecuniary  liabilities 
which  they  were  imable  to  liquidate,  brought  a  tear  into  the  manliest  eye  present. 
The  remaining  toasts  were  Doctor  Mell  ;  Mrs.  Micawber  (who  gracefully  bowed 
her  acknowledgments  from  the  side-door,  where  a  galaxy  of  beauty  was  elevated  on 
chairs,  at  once  to  witness  and  adorn  the  gratifying  scene)  ;  Mrs.  Ridger  Begs  (late 
Miss  Micawber)  ;  Mrs.  Mell  ;  Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire,  Junior  (who  con- 
vulsed the  assembly  by  humorously  remarking  that  he  found  himself  unable  to  return 
thanks  in  a  speech,  but  would  do  so,  with  their  permission,  in  a  song) ;  Mrs.  Micawber's 
Family  (well  known,  it  is  needless  to  remark,  in  the  mother-country),  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 
At  the  conclusion  of  the  proceedings  the  tables  were  cleared  as  if  by  art-magic  for 
dancing.  Among  the  votaries  of  Terpsichore,  who  disported  themselves  until  Sol 
gave  warning  for  departure,  Wilkins  Micawber,  Esquire,  Junior,  and  the  lovely  and 
accomplished  Miss  Helena,  fourth  daughter  of  Doctor  Mell,  were  particularly 
remarkable.' 

I  was  looking  back  to  the  name  of  Doctor  Mell,  pleased  to  have  discovered,  in  these 
happier  circumstances,  Mr.  Mell,  formerly  poor  pinched  usher  to  my  Middlesex  magis- 
trate, when  Mr.  Peggotty  pointing  to  another  part  of  the  paper,  my  eyes  rested  on  my 
own  name,  and  I  read  thus  : — 


A    VISITOIt  569 

•TO  DAVID  COPPERFIKLD,  ESQUIRE, 

THE    EMINENT    AUTHOH. 

'  My  Dear  Sm, 

'  Years  have  elapsed,  since  I  had  an  opportunity  of  ocularly  perusing  the 
lineaments,  now  familiar  to  the  imaginations  of  a  considerable  portion  of  the  eiviliserl 
world. 

'  But,  my  dear  sir,  though  estranged  (by  the  force  of  circumstances  over  which  I 
have  had  no  control)  from  the  personal  society  of  the  friend  and  companion  of  my 
youth,  I  have  not  been  unmindful  of  his  soaring  flight.     Nor  have  I  been  debarred, 

"Though  seas  between  us  braid  ha'  roared," 

(Burns)  from  participating  in  the  intellectual  feasts  he  has  spread  before  us. 

'  I  cannot,  therefore,  allow  of  the  departure  from  this  place  of  an  individual 
whom  we  mutually  respect  and  esteem,  without,  my  dear  sir,  taking  this  public  oppor- 
tunity of  thanking  you,  on  my  own  behalf,  and  I  may  undertake  to  add,  on  that  of 
the  whole  of  the  Inhabitants  of  Port  Middlebay,  for  the  gratification  of  which  you  are 
the  ministering  agent. 

'  Go  on,  my  dear  sir  1  You  are  not  unknown  here,  you  are  not  unappreciated. 
Though  "  remote,"  we  are  neither  "  unfriended,"  "  melancholy,"  nor  (I  may  add) 
"  slow."  Go  on,  my  dear  sir,  in  your  Eagle  course  !  The  inhabitants  of  Port  Middle- 
bay  may  at  least  aspire  to  watch  it,  with  delight,  with  entertainment,  with  instruction  ! 

'  Among  the  eyes  elevated  towards  you  from  this  portion  of  the  globe,  will  ever  be 
found,  while  it  has  light  and  life, 

'The 
'Eye 

'  Appertaining  to 

'  WiLKINS    MiCAWBER, 

'  Magistrate.' 

I  found,  on  glancing  at  the  remaining  contents  of  the  newspaper,  that  Mr.  Micawber 
was  a  diligent  and  esteemed  correspondent  of  that  journal.  There  was  another  letter 
from  him  in  the  same  paper,  touching  a  bridge  ;  there  was  an  advertisement  of  a  collec- 
tion of  similar  letters  by  him,  to  be  shortly  republished,  in  a  neat  volume,  '  with  con- 
siderable additions  '  ;  and,  unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  the  Leading  Article  was 
his  also. 

We  talked  much  of  Mr.  Micawber,  on  many  other  evenings  while  Mr.  Peggotty 
remained  with  us.  He  lived  with  us  during  the  whole  term  of  his  stay, — which,  I 
think,  was  something  less  than  a  month, — and  his  sister  and  my  aunt  came  to  London 
to  see  him.  Agnes  and  I  parted  from  him  aboard-ship,  when  he  sailed  ;  and  we  shall 
never  part  from  him  more,  on  earth. 

But  before  he  left,  he  went  with  me  to  Yarmouth,  to  see  a  little  tablet  I  had  put 
up  in  the  churchyard  to  the  memory  of  Ham.  While  I  was  copying  the  plain  inscription 
for  him  at  his  request,  I  saw  him  stoop,  and  gather  a  tuft  of  grass  from  the  grave,  and 
a  little  earth. 

'  For  Em'ly,'  he  said,  as  he  put  it  in  his  breast.     '  I  promised,  Mas'r  Davy.' 


CHAPTEK    LXIV 

A   LAST    RETROSPECT 

A  ND  now  my  written  story  ends.     I  look  back,  once  more — for  the  last  time 
/^L         — before  I  close  these  leaves. 
/      ^       I  see  myself,  with  Agnes  at  my  side,  journeying  along  the  road  of  life. 
-*-       -^-     I  see  our  children  and  our  friends  around  us  ;   and  I  hear  the  roar  of  many 
voices,  not  indifferent  to  me  as  I  travel  on. 

What  faces  are  the  most  distinct  to  me  in  the  fleeting  crowd  ?  Lo,  these  ;  all 
turning  to  me  as  I  ask  my  thoughts  the  question  ! 

Here  is  my  aunt,  in  stronger  spectacles,  an  old  woman  of  fourscore  years  and 
more,  but  upright  yet,  and  a  steady  walker  of  six  miles  at  a  stretch  in  winter  weather. 

Always  with  her,  here  comes  Peggotty,  my  good  old  nurse,  likewise  in  spectacles, 
accustomed  to  do  needlework  at  night  very  close  to  the  lamp,  but  never  sitting  down 
to  it  without  a  bit  of  wax-candle,  a  yard  measure  in  a  little  house,  and  a  work-box 
with  a  picture  of  St.  Paul's  upon  the  lid. 

The  cheeks  and  arms  of  Peggotty,  so  hard  and  red  in  my  childish  days,  when  I 
wondered  why  the  birds  didn't  peck  her  in  preference  to  apples,  are  shrivelled  now  ; 
and  her  eyes,  that  used  to  darken  their  whole  neighbourhood  in  her  face,  are  fainter 
(though  they  glitter  still) ;  but  her  rough  forefinger,  which  I  once  associated  with  a 
pocket  nutmeg-grater,  is  just  the  same,  and  when  I  see  my  least  child  catching  at  it  as 
it  totters  from  my  aunt  to  her,  I  think  of  our  little  parlour  at  home,  when  I  could  scarcely 
walk.  My  aunt's  old  disappointment  is  set  right,  now.  She  is  godmother  to  a  real 
living  Betsey  Trotwood  ;   and  Dora  (the  next  in  order)  says  she  spoils  her. 

There  is  something  bulky  in  Peggotty's  pocket.  It  is  nothing  smaller  than  the 
crocodile  book,  which  is  in  rather  a  dilapidated  condition  by  this  time,  with  divers  of 
the  leaves  torn  and  stitched  across,  but  which  Peggotty  exhibits  to  the  children  as  a 
precious  relic.  I  find  it  very  curious  to  see  my  own  infant  face,  looking  up  at  me  from 
the  crocodile  stories  ;  and  to  be  reminded  by  it  of  my  old  acquaintance  Brooks  of 
Sheffield. 

Among  my  boys,  this  summer  holiday  time,  I  see  an  old  man  making  giant  kites, 
and  gazing  at  them  in  the  air,  with  a  delight  for  which  there  are  no  words.  He  greets 
me  rapturously,  and  whispers,  with  many  nods  and  winks,  '  Trotwood,  you  will  be 
glad  to  hear  that  I  shall  finish  the  Memorial  when  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  and  that 
your  aunt's  the  most  extraordinary  woman  in  the  world,  sir  !  ' 

Who  is  this  bent  lady,  supporting  herself  by  a  stick,  and  showing  me  a  countenance 
in  which  there  are  some  traces  of  old  pride  and  beauty,  feebly  contending  with  a 
querulous,  imbecile,  fretful  wandering  of  the  mind  ?  She  is  in  a  garden  ;  and  near 
her  stands  a  sharp,  dark,  withered  woman,  with  a  white  scar  on  her  lip.  Let  me  hear 
what  they  say. 

'  Rosa,  I  have  forgotten  this  gentleman's  name.' 

Rosa  bends  over  her,  and  calls  to  her,  '  Mr.  Copperfield.' 

'  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir.  I  am  sorry  to  observe  you  are  in  mourning.  I  hope 
Time  will  be  good  to  you.' 

570 


A  LAST  JUyiROSPECT  r>7i 

Her  impatient  attendant  scolds  her,  tells  her  I  am  not  in  mouminp,  bids  her 
look  again,  tries  to  rouse  her. 

'  You  have  seen  my  son,  sir,*  says  the  elder  lady.     '  Are  you  reeoneiled  Y  ' 

Looking  fixedly  at  me,  she  puts  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  moans.  Suddenly, 
she  cries,  in  a  terrible  voice,  '  Rosa,  come  to  me.  He  is  dead  !  '  Rosa  kneeling  at 
her  feet,  by  turns  caresses  her,  and  quarrels  with  her  ;  nf)w  fiercely  telling  her,  '  I  loved 
him  better  than  you  ever  did  !  ' — no^v  soothing  her  to  slcc|>  on  her  breast,  like  a  sick 
child.  Thus  I  leave  them  ;  thus  I  always  find  them  ;  thus  they  wear  their  time  away, 
from  year  to  year. 

What  ship  comes  sailing  home  from  India,  and  what  English  lady  is  this,  married 
to  a  growling  old  Scotch  Croesus  with  great  Haps  of  ears  ?     Can  this  be  Julia  .Mills  ? 

Indeed  it  is  Julia  Mills,  peevish  and  fine,  with  a  black  man  to  carry  cards  and 
letters  to  her  on  a  golden  salver,  and  a  copper-coloured  woman  in  linen,  with  a  bright 
handkerchief  round  her  head,  to  .serve  her  Tiflin  in  her  dressing-room.  Rut  Julia  keeps 
no  diary  in  these  days  ;  never  sings  Affection's  Dirge  ;  eternally  quarrels  with  the  old 
Scotch  Croesus,  who  is  a  sort  of  yellow  bear  with  a  tanned  hide.  .Julia  is  steeped  in 
money  to  the  throat,  and  talks  and  thinks  of  nothing  else.  I  liked  her  better  in  the 
Desert  of  Sahara. 

Or  perhaps  this  is  the  Desert  of  vSahara  I  For,  though  Julia  has  a  stately  house, 
and  mighty  company,  and  sumptuous  dinners  every  day,  I  see  no  green  growth  near 
her  ;  nothing  that  can  ever  come  to  fruit  or  flower.  What  Julia  calls  '  society,'  I  see  ; 
among  it  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  from  his  Patent  Place,  sneering  at  the  hand  that  gave  it 
him,  and  speaking  to  me,  of  the  Doctor,  as  '  so  charmingly  antique.'  Rut  when 
society  is  the  name  for  such  hollow  gentlemen  and  ladies,  Julia,  and  when  its  breeding 
is  professed  indifference  to  everything  that  can  advance  or  can  retard  mankind,  I 
think  we  must  have  lost  ourselves  in  that  same  Desert  of  Sahara,  and  had  better  find 
the  way  out. 

And  lo,  the  Doctor,  always  our  good  friend,  labouring  at  his  Dictionary  (somewhere 
about  the  letter  D),  and  happy  in  his  home  and  wife.  Also  the  Old  Soldier,  on  a 
considerably  reduced  footing,  and  by  no  means  so  influential  as  in  days  of  yore  ! 

Working  at  his  chambers  in  the  Temple,  with  a  busy  aspect,  and  his  hair  (where 
he  is  not  bald)  made  more  rebellious  than  ever  by  the  constant  friction  of  his  lawyer's 
wig,  I  come,  in  a  later  time,  upon  my  dear  old  Traddles.  His  table  is  covered  with 
thick  piles  of  papers  ;   and  I  say,  as  I  look  around  me —  ♦ 

'  If  Sophy  were  your  clerk,  now,  Traddles,  she  would  have  enough  to  do  !  ' 

'  You  may  say  that,  my  dear  Copperfield  !  Rut  those  were  capital  days,  too, 
in  Holborn  Court  !     Were  they  not  ?  ' 

'  When  she  told  you  you  would  be  a  judge  ?     Rut  it  was  not  the  town  talk  ilien  !  ' 

'  At  all  events,'  says  Traddles,  '  if  I  ever  am  one ' 

'  Why,  you  know  you  will  be' 

'  Well,  my  dear  Copperfield,  wfieri  I  am  one,  I  shall  tell  the  story,  as  I  said  I  would." 

We  walk  away,  arm-in-arm.  I  am  going  to  have  a  family  dinner  with  Traddles. 
It  is  Sophy's  birthday  ;  and,  on  our  road,  Traddles  discourses  to  me  of  the  good  fortune 
he  has  enjoyed. 

'  I  really  have  been  able,  my  dear  Copperfield,  to  do  all  that  I  had  most  at  heart. 
There  's  the  Reverend  Horace  promoted  to  that  living  at  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  year  ;  there  are  our  two  boys  receiving  the  very  best  education,  and  distinguishing 
themselves  as  steady  scholars  and  good  fellows  ;    there  are  three  of  the  girls  married 


572  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 

very  comfortably ;   there  are  three  more  living  with  us  ;   there  are  three  more  keeping 
house  for  the  Reverend  Horace  since  Mrs.  Crewler's  decease  ;   and  all  of  them  happy.' 

'  Except '  I  suggest. 

'  Except  the  Beauty,'  says  Traddles.  '  Yes.  It  was  very  unfortimate  that  she 
should  marry  such  a  vagabond.  But  there  was  a  certain  dash  and  glare  about  him 
that  caught  her.  However,  now  we  have  got  her  safe  at  our  house,  and  got  rid  of  him, 
we  must  cheer  her  up  again.' 

Traddles's  house  is  one  of  the  very  houses — or  it  easily  may  have  been — which  he 
and  Sophy  used  to  parcel  out,  in  their  evening  walks.  It  is  a  large  house  ;  but  Traddles 
keeps  his  papers  in  his  dressing-room,  and  his  boots  with  his  papers  ;  and  he  and 
Sophy  squeeze  themselves  into  upper  rooms,  reserving  the  best  bedrooms  for  the  Beauty 
and  the  girls.  There  is  no  room  to  spare  in  the  house  ;  for  more  of  '  the  girls  '  are 
here,  and  always  are  here,  by  some  accident  or  other,  than  I  know  how  to  count. 
Here,  when  we  go  in,  is  a  crowd  of  them,  running  down  to  the  door,  and  handing 
Traddles  about  to  be  kissed,  until  he  is  out  of  breath.  Here,  established  in  perpetuity, 
is  the  poor  Beauty,  a  widow  with  a  little  girl ;  here,  at  dinner  on  Sophy's  birthday,  are 
the  three  married  girls  with  their  three  husbands,  and  one  of  the  husband's  brothers, 
and  another  husband's  cousin,  and  another  husband's  sister,  who  appears  to  me  to 
be  engaged  to  the  cousin.  Traddles,  exactly  the  same  simple,  unaffected  fellow  as 
he  ever  was,  sits  at  the  foot  of  the  large  table  like  a  Patriarch  ;  and  Sophy  beams 
upon  him,  from  the  head,  across  a  cheerful  space  that  is  certainly  not  glittering  with 
Britannia-metal . 

And  now,  as  I  close  my  task,  subduing  my  desire  to  linger  yet,  these  faces  fade 
away.  But,  one  face,  shining  on  me  like  a  heavenly  light  by  which  I  see  all  other 
objects,  is  above  them  and  beyond  them  all.     And  that  remains. 

I  turn  my  head,  and  see  it,  in  its  beautiful  serenity,  beside  me.  My  lamp  burns 
low,  and  I  have  written  far  into  the  night ;  but  the  dear  presence,  without  which  I 
were  nothing,  bears  me  company. 

Oh  Agnes,  Oh  my  soul,  so  may  thy  face  be  by  me  when  I  close  my  life  indeed  ! 
so  may  I,  when  realities  are  melting  from  me  like  the  shadows  which  I  now  dismiss, 
still  find  thee  near  me,  pointing  upward  ! 


I 


THE    END 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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